THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 


BY  J.   E.   BUCKROSE 

THE  MATCHMAKERS 
THE  ROUND-ABOUT 
SPRAY  ON  THE  WINDOWS 
GAY  MORNING 
BECAUSE  OF  JANE 
A  BACHELOR'S  COMEDY 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 


BY 


J.  E.  BUCKROSE  \'fP:&W 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  MATCHMAKERS, 


ETC 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1»17, 
BY   GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN  THE  UNITED  STATES   OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAG« 

I.  CHUBB'S  CAB 9 

II.  ON  THE  RYEPORD  ROAD 16 

III.  MRS.  CHUBB 24 

IV.  Miss  AMELIA'S  GHOST 30 

V.  A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE 42 

VI.  CRANBIE'S  SALE 54 

VII.  STRANGERS 64 

VIII.  LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC 78 

IX.  DELIA'S  PART 95 

X.  A  COUNTRY  WALK 106 

XI.  PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT 120 

XII.  PAULINE  INTERVENES 133 

XIII.  THE  MEETING 146 

XIV.  As  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT 159 

XV.  MORE  NEWS 172 

XVI.  THE  WHITE  BISONS 183 

XVII.  THE  DAY  AFTER     . 197 

XVIII.  THE  TENNIS  CLUB 213 

XIX.  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  228 


2136498 


ri  CONTENTS 

OHAPTHR  PAG1 

JCX.    FAREWELL! 244 

XXI.    WINTER-TIME 257 

XXII.    BAD  NEWS 272 

XXIII.  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB 279 

XXIV.  LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET    ....  293 
XXV.  THE  GREAT  BAZAAB    ,  306 


THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 


THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 


CHAPTER  I 

CHUBB 'S  CAB 

T3I  7ENDLEBURY  lies  in  the  midst  of  undulating 
V  V  meadows  which  are  almost  always  brightly  green  on 
account  of  the  heavy  rainfall.  People  who  have  lived 
there  when  they  were  young  look  back  at  the  red  roofs 
and  tall  church  spire  of  the  little  town  through  a  delicate 
curtain  of  fine  showers,  but  those  who  still  remain  there 
consider  it  quite  a  dry  place,  or,  if  not  exactly  dry,  no 
wetter  than  its  neighbours. 

Pauline  Westcott,  who  was  half  an  inhabitant  and  half 
a  stranger,  believed  that  this  continuous,  soft-falling  mois- 
ture worked  upon  every  one  there  a  sort  of  Wendlebury 
change;  so  that  the  town  and  people,  and  even  the  very 
cats  and  dogs,  were  in  pleasant  harmony.  But  she  re- 
mained unaware  how  far  this  process  had  gone  in  her  own 
case,  or  she  would  have  laughed  at  herself  for  becoming 
quite  excited  about  the  non-arrival  of  Chubb 's  cab. 

All  her  early  girlhood  had  been  spent  in  a  London  office, 
where  she  determined  to  excel  and  did  excel,  chaining  her 
spirit  to  her  desk  and  following  generally  the  bright  exam- 
ple of  the  Will  o'  the  Wisp  that  would  be  a  light  outside 
a  pork-butcher's  shop  because  it  had  developed  a  con- 
science and  wanted  to  be  of  some  real,  practical  use  in  the 
world. 

This  Will  o'  the  Wisp,  as  everybody  knows,  gradually 
nickered  out  in  spite  of  excellent  intentions,  until  the  pork- 
butcher  complained  to  the  Gas  Company  and  the  Gas  Com- 

9 


10  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

pany  sent  a  mystified  plumber  and  mutual  recriminations 
followed  which  unsettled  the  pork-butcher's  mind  and  the 
sausage  supply  of  many  innocent  citizens;  the  Will  o' 
the  "Wisp,  meanwhile,  returning  to  its  native  swamp  very 
disheartened,  with  the  information  that  some  lights  can 
only  shine  in  quiet  places. 

The  part  of  the  mystified  plumber,  in  Pauline's  case, 
was  taken  by  the  doctor,  who  grew  tired  of  prescribing 
medicines  which  did  no  good  and  packed  his  patient  oft3 
to  Aunt  Dickson  in  Wendlebury  for  complete  rest  and 
change.  Pauline  was  a  small,  pale,  dark-eyed  girl,  with 
a  slim  figure  and  beautiful,  long-fingered  hands  which 
seemed  oddly  more  alive  than  those  of  other  people,  though 
she  very  seldom  gesticulated:  and  in  the  weeks  following 
her  first  arrival  she  constantly  alarmed  Aunt  Dickson  by 
seeming  likely  to  flicker  out  altogether.  It  was  Eva,  the 
maid  of  the  little  establishment,  who  first  roused  the  in- 
valid from  the  state  of  listless  apathy  into  which  she  had 
fallen. 

The  occasion  was  a  bleak  morning  in  January,  when 
Pauline  lay  in  bed  languidly  munching  her  carefully  pre- 
pared breakfast  as  if  it  were  so  much  sawdust,  while  Eva 
looked  on  with  growing  annoyance  and  an  acute  toothache. 
It  was  this  last  which  gave  her  the  impetus  to  blurt  out, 
finally — 

"I  could  die  in  a  fog  if  I  wanted  to!  Anybody  could! 
It's  as  easy  as  kiss  your  hand." 

"You  don't  know  how  miserable  I  feel,"  sighed  Pauline. 

"I  dessay  not,"  replied  Eva.  "Though  I  was  a  seven 
months'  child,  and  one  of  ten,  and  never  got  no  schooling 
because  of  being  always  bad  with  every  measle  and  cold 
that  came  to  the  village."  She  paused  to  draw  breath. 
"Illness  tried  to  down  me,  and  ignorance  tried  to  down 
me,  and  poorness  tried  to  down  me ;  but — Miss — I  wouldn  't 
be  downed!" 

Pauline  smiled  at  the  odd  little  figure  with  the  long 
features  and  bird-like  glance,  but  tears  came  into  her  eyes 


CHUBB 'S  CAB  11 

as  well,  because  she  was  still  at  that  stage  of  extreme 
weakness  when  smiles  and  tears  seem  to  be  uncomfortably 
joined  together  somewhere  inside,  and  are  not  to  be  sep- 
arated by  the  person  most  concerned. 

"So  you  think  I  am  easily  'downed'?"  was  all  she  said, 
however;  still,  from  that  time  she  began  to  get  better,  and 
now  her  long  illness  was  only  an  unpleasant  memory 
which  caused  her  to  sigh  with  wonder  every  now  and 
again:  "How  could  I  have  been  such  a  jellyfish!" 

At  this  moment,  standing  in  her  grey  gown  before  the 
straight,  high  window,  she  still  wore  a  deceptive  appear- 
ance of  fragility  which  her  clear  skin  and  fresh  voice 
contradicted,  but  which  caused  Aunt  Dickson  to  insist  on 
her  waiting  for  the  cab  which  had  been  engaged  to  take 
sixteen  ladies  of  Wendlebury,  in  relays,  to  a  card-party 
at  the  house  of  the  Misses  Pritchard. 

It  must  be  explained  that  four  good  cabs  existed  in 
the  place,  but  three  of  them  were  owned  by  the  Bowling 
Green  Inn  and  were  in  great  request  for  funerals,  wed- 
dings and  such-like  occasions  when  a  farmer's  dog-cart 
was  neither  dignified  nor  fitting.  On  this  particular  after- 
noon, the  cabs  gave  lustre  to  a  wedding  some  miles  away, 
so  the  sixteen  ladies  who  had  "accepted  with  pleasure" 
were  entirely  dependant  on  Chubb  to  convey  them  through 
the  steadily  pouring  rain. 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "Chubb  is  very 
late."  And  as  she  spoke  she  touched  a  metal  tortoise 
near  her,  the  head  of  which  animal  rang  an  electric  bell 
upstairs  while  the  tail  communicated  with  the  kitchen,  so 
that  Aunt  Dickson,  in  spite  of  her  lameness,  was  enabled 
to  keep  her  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  daily  life.  This  was 
a  very  good  thing,  because  Aunt  Dickson  was  so  tremen- 
dously interested  in  life. 

"You  ordered  Chubb,  Eva?"  she  said  when  the  maid 
appeared. 

"Of  course  I  did,  'm,"  said  Eva.  "I  went  out  a'  pur- 
pose." 


12  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Pauline  laughed  and  came  forward  from  the  window. 
Wheels  sounded  outside.  "Here  is  Chubb!"  she  said. 

"Late  again!"  called  Aunt  Dickson,  in  her  strong, 
pleasant  voice. 

"Right  by  church  clock  .  .  .  wet  through  .  .  .  wheezin' 
like  a  steam  engine,"  bawled  Chubb  from  the  doorway. 
"Shouldn't  ha'  turned  out  if  it  hadn't  been  for  incon- 
veniencing you,  'm." 

Instantly,  Aunt  Diekson's  big,  red  face  puckered  with 
concern. 

"Come  in!  Come  in!"  she  called.  "Eva,  give  him  a 
cup  of  hot  tea." 

"What '11  the  ladies  say?"  asked  Chubb. 

"Oh,  they  won't  mind,"  said  Aunt  Dickson  comfort- 
ably; for  somebody  else  being  kept  waiting  is  so  entirely 
different.  ' '  So  long  as  your  horse  will  stand  ? ' ' 

' '  Stand  ? ' '  said  Chubb.  ' '  She  'd  grow  there  before  she  'd 
move:  I've  trained  her." 

Then  he  joined  Eva  in  the  kitchen,  ordering  her  rather 
peremptorily  to  put  more  milk  in  his  cup. 

"Would  you  tek  me  for  a  fire-eater?"  he  said. 

"I  wouldn't  tek  you  for  a  thousand  million  pounds," 
cackled  Eva,  glad  of  this  opportunity  of  scoring  off  an  old 
enemy. 

"That  isn't  funny  and  it  isn't  sense,"  said  Chubb. 
' '  But  one  thing  I  do  know :  you  tried  your  best  to  get  old 
Sammy  Briggs  that  hasn't  but  one  arm  and — 

Suddenly  the  electric  tortoise-bell  whizzed  through  the 
house.  Pauline  came  running  downstairs  and  Eva  and 
Chubb  hastened  out  of  the  kitchen. 

" Chubb !"  shouted  Aunt  Dickson.  "I  heard  wheels.  I 
think  your  horse  has  bolted." 

' '  Never !  I  '11  tek  my  oath, ' '  panted  Chubb,  flinging  open 
the  front  door. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  paralysed,  gazing  out  into  the 
blank  and  windswept  street,  then  he  started  to  run  at  an 
uneven  jog-trot  pace  in  the  direction  of  the  Ryeford 


CHUBB 'S  CAB  13 

Road,  whence  came  faint  echoes  of  a  four-wheeled  cab 
being  driven  furiously. 

Fifteen  ladies  looked  out  from  eight  narrow,  red  houses 
which  all  had  gleaming  knockers,  white  doorsteps,  and  an 
air  of  having  behaved  always  exactly  as  houses  should. 
The  watchers,  who  wore  best  dresses  which  would  spoil  in 
such  a  downpour,  compared  the  room  clock  with  the 
kitchen  clock  and  both  with  the  chimes  from  the  church 
spire  like  so  many  marionettes  moved  by  a  common  string, 
because  it  is  not  thought  to  be  very  refined  to  have  more 
than  one  best  dress  in  Wendlebury,  and  this  cannot,  of 
course,  be  exposed  to  unnecessary  danger. 

But  if  the  intending  guests  were  feeling  agitated,  that 
word  is  too  weak  to  describe  the  sensations  of  the  Misses 
Pritchard,  who  sat  among  little  gleaming  card-tables 
spread  with  cards  and  chocolate  drops  in  blue  china  sau- 
cers, and  endured  tortures  of  suspense. 

"Four  o'clock!  And  they  were  asked  for  three-thirty. 
What  can  have  happened?"  sighed  Miss  Amelia. 

"I  expect  you  wrote  the  invitations  incorrectly," 
snapped  Miss  Harriet.  "You  are  so  careless.  Remember 
how  you  sent  a  laundry  list  in  mistake  for  a  missionary 
leaflet  to  the  Vicar.  Anything  might  be  done  by  a  person 
who  could  make  such  a  mistake  as  that." 

"It  was  printed  on  the  same  kind  of  paper;  and,  after 
all,  the  laundries  always  abbreviate,"  replied  Miss  Amelia, 
who  was  ready  to  cry  with  disappointment  and  fatigue, 
it  being  no  light  matter  to  give  a  party  in  Wendlebury, 
where  every  householder  can  bake  cakes  such  as  London 
and  Paris  and  New  York  chefs  may  compose  for  the  an- 
gels when  they  go  to  heaven. 

Another  matter  also  weighed  on  the  hostesses'  minds 
which  they  had  agreed  not  to  mention,  or  even  to  think  of, 
for  the  duration  of  the  party ;  but  it  was  this  which  made 
them  start  violently  when  the  door  burst  open. 


14  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Oh!"  they  squealed  simultaneously.  Then  on  another 
note:  "You,  Pauline?" 

"Forgive  my  rushing  in  like  this,"  said  Pauline,  "but 
I  came  along  the  moment  the  rain  abated  a  little ;  I  thought 
you  would  be  wondering  what  had  happened." 

Miss  Harriet  rose,  something  with  the  air  of  a  Mrs. 
Siddons. 

"I  kne^T  it!  They  would  burn  an  oil  stove  in  the  hall 
despite  my  repeated  warnings.  The  Vicarage  is  on  fire  at 
last." 

"No,  no,"  said  Pauline.  " It  is  only  Chubb 's  cab.  Run 
away.  .  .  .  Chubb  after  it." 

"Goodness!"  said  Miss  Amelia. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Pauline,  glancing  round  at  the  cards 
and  chocolate  drops.  "I  am  so  sorry;  it  is  dreadfully  dis- 
appointing after  all  your  preparations." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  drawing  herself  up. 
"A  little  card-party  is  neither  here  nor  there.  A  mere 
bagatelle." 

Miss  Amelia's  lower  jaw  dropped,  then  she  caught  her 
sister's  eye,  pursed  her  lips  and  agreed  hastily — 

"Of  course  ...  a  mere  bagatelle." 

But  there  was  something  in  it  all  which  touched  Pauline, 
and  perhaps  may  have  appealed  to  the  Clerk  of  the 
Weather,  for  he  is  an  official  with  the  capricious  uncer- 
tainty of  an  official,  but  one  who  also  has  a  love  of  prac- 
tical jokes  which  shows  him  to  be  very  human.  Anyway, 
he  stopped  the  rain  just  at  that  moment,  and  sent  a  few 
rays  of  pale  sunshine  dancing  down  "Wendlebury  streets. 
Then  eight  front  doors  burst  open  like  flowers  at  the  ap- 
proach of  spring,  and  fifteen  ladies  shimmered  forth  in  silk 
and  grenadine  and  satin  merveilleux,  picking  their  way 
between  puddles  which  reflected  every  delicate  hue  of  grey 
and  blue  and  old  silver  from  the  February  sky  above. 

As  the  ladies  met  outside  the  Miss  Pritchards'  house 
they  stood  in  a  group  with  faces  bent  forward,  talking 
eagerly,  and  the  gay  twitter  of  question  and  answer  lasted 


CHUBB 'S  CAB  15 

until  they  were  all  safely  seated  by  the  little  tea-tables, 
eating  yellow  queen  cakes  and  drinking  tea  from  beauti- 
ful old  green-and-white  Rockingham  china.  Continuously 
through  the  lively  hum  of  conversation  could  be  heard 
Miss  Amelia's  company:  "Only  fancy  that!"  and  Miss 
Harriet's  "How  very  interesting!"  Every  now  and  then, 
giving  tone  to  the  whole,  came  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere's  important:  "As  I  was  saying  to  my  brother-in- 
law,  Lord  South  water ' ' ;  while  the  young  laughter  of.  the 
doctor's  daughter  and  of  Pauline  ran  freshly  through  the 
talk  like  the  sound  of  Wendlebury  beck  through  the  traf- 
fic of  market  day. 

It  was  clear  now  that  the  party  had  gained  an  added 
brilliance  from  what  at  first  appeared  a  misfortune,  and 
as  Miss  Amelia  looked  round  at  the  little  tables  she  won- 
dered how  any  one  could  possibly  call  "Wendlebury  a  dull 
place. 


CHAPTER  II 

ON  THE  ETEFORD  ROAD 

cab  jolted  along  the  Ryeford  Road  at  such 
an  incredible  pace  that  the  sparrows,  who  knew  it 
well,  twittered  amazement  to  each  other  in  the  hedgerows, 
but  more  surprised  still  was  Chubb 's  mare,  who,  like  many 
middle-aged  ladies,  having  got  into  a  fixed  groove  of  think- 
ing she  couldn't,  was  tremendously  astonished  to  find  out 
that  she  after  all  could. 

She  wondered  vaguely  through  her  amaze,  as  she  thus 
cantered  along  after  the  fashion  of  her  vanished  youth, 
what  on  earth  had  happened  to  Chubb.  Either  he  was 
drunk,  which  seemed  improbable  because  he  had  long  been 
a  strict  teetotaler,  or  he  had  suffered  some  violent  change 
of  character.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  another  man 
could  be  on  the  box,  for  she  was  a  conservative  female  and 
nobody  else  had  occupied  that  position  within  her  recollec- 
tion. 

Finally,  however,  she  felt  herself  pulled  up  near  a  stone 
heap,  and  a  voice  absolutely  unlike  Chubb 's  called  out 
sternly:  "Stan'  still!"  So  she  moved  her  head  round  as 
far  as  she  could,  and  fixed  a  mild,  reproachful  eye  on  the 
owner  of  the  voice,  saying  without  words  that  she  might 
have  known  it  was  not  her  Chubb. 

"Stan5  still!"  repeated  the  young  man  who  had  been 
driving.  Then  he  turned  to  the  stone-heap :  "She'll  stand 
all  right,  Delamere,  if  you  think  you  can  get  in?" 

A  tall,  thin  man  in  a  big  overcoat  rose  with  some  diffi- 
culty, but  he  managed  to  give  a  feeble  laugh  at  the  sight 
of  the  cab. 

16 


ON  THE  RYEFORD  ROAD  17 

"That's  never  Chubb 's  cab?"  he  said.  "Lord!  Unwin, 
how  the  sun  stands  still  in  Wendlebury ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Unwin.  "Let  me  help  you.  That  all 
right?" 

Delamere  suppressed  a  groan  and  leaned  back  on  the 
fusty  cushions.  "Quite  right,  thanks." 

"Now  I'll  hop  on  the  box  and  drive  as  carefully  as  I 
can,"  said  Unwin.  "Gee-up!"  And  the  mare  moved  on 
again,  in  her  usual  slow  flounder  this  time,  along  the  quiet 
road.  Delamere  at  first  lay  back  with  closed  eyes,  but 
after  a  while  he  opened  them  and  looked  round  at  the 
green  fields  on  either  side  like  an  exile  seeing  home  after 
long  years  away.  The  tenderness  for  what  is  left.  .  .  . 
regret  for  what  is  gone  ...  an  aching  joy  like  no  other  on 
earth  .  .  .  though  all  men  cannot  feel  this  joy,  any  more 
than  all  can  feel  true  love. 

The  cab  stopped  before  the  Green  Dragon  Inn  and 
Unwin  opened  the  door. 

"Here  we  are,  Delamere." 

' '  Hush,  man ! ' '  said  the  invalid,  glancing  quickly  round. 
"I  gave  my  name  as  Johnson  when  I  came  here  yesterday. 
I  don't  think  the  family  .  .  .  you  understand?" 

' '  What  rot ! ' '  said  Unwin,  flushing  uncomfortably. 
"That's  all  forgotten.  Mrs.  Delamere  would  be  delighted 
to  see  you,  of  course." 

' '  I  won 't — put  her — to  the  test, ' '  gasped  Delamere,  lean- 
ing heavily  on  Unwin  as  he  got  out  of  the  cab. 

But  ten  minutes  later  he  had  removed  his  damp  clothes 
and  was  established  comfortably  enough  on  the  sofa  by  the 
fireside. 

"Morbid  idea,  wasn't  it?"  he  said  with  a  smile:  "this 
craving  to  come  home  to  die.  I  walked  too  far  this  after- 
noon trying  to  see  Wendlebury  again  with  the  rain  driving 
across  it.  ...  You  know  how  it  does?  That  was  why  you 
found  me  in  a  dead  faint  on  a  stone-heap." 

"Well,  I  must  own  you  gave  me  a  turn,"  said  Unwin. 
"I  quite  thought  you  were  dying,  and  when  you  came 


18  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

I 
round  you  would  not  let  me  fetch  a  doctor  or  anything. 

All  you  would  say  was :  '  Get  me  back  to  the  Green  Dragon, 
somehow.'  "  f 

"Well,"  said  Delamere,  in  his  husky  voice,  "I  don't 
mind  telling  you  now  that  I  thought  I  was  dying  too.  A 
man  with  the  remnant  of  one  lung  has  no  business  to  be 
wandering  about  wet  roads,  of  course.  It  was  awfully 
good  of  you  to  do  just  the  one  thing  that  was  any  use, 
though  how  you  did  it,  I  don't  know.  Did  you  brain 
Chubb  with  his  own  whip  and  drive  on  over  his  prostrate 
body?  But,  no,  you  couldn't.  That  would  have  upset  the 
cab,  unless  Chubb  has  grown  much  thinner." 

He  spoke  now  rather  quickly  and  his  cheeks  burned. 

"I  found  the  cab  standing  outside  Mrs.  Dickson's  while 
Chubb  regaled  himself  inside,"  said  Unwin.  Then  he 
paused  and  continued  in  a  more  earnest  tone :  ' '  Look  here, 
Delamere,  this  is  all  nonsense.  What's  done,  is  done.  You 
have  kept  out  of  the  way  in  Australia  for  years  and  the 
whole  blessed  business  is  forgotten.  Why  hide  away  in 
this  pokey  pub  as  if  you  'd  only  come  a  mucker  yesterday  ? 
I  tell  you,  life's  too  short.  Mrs.  Delamere  and  Lord 
Southwater  would  be  awfully  grieved  if  they  knew  about 
it." 

"My  sister-in-law  and  my  estimable  brother  would  be 
more  grieved  still  if  they  had  to  welcome  the  prodigal 
home,  and  duty  compelled  them  to  kill  the  fatted  .  .  . 
calves'  foot  jelly."  Delamere  paused  to  take  breath,  and 
added  with  decision :  ' '  No,  Unwin.  You  found  me  out  by 
accident.  You  must  respect  my  secret." 

"But  some  one  will  certainly  recognise  you,  as  I  did," 
argued  Unwin. 

"I  think  not.  The  people  of  the  inn  have  come  here 
since  my  day,  and  I  shall  be  very  careful.  Besides,  you 
would  not  have  recognised  me  but  for  the  name  on  the 
letter." 

' '  It  lay  by  your  side.  I  thought  you  were  dying.  I  had 
to  find  out  what  to  do  with  you,"  apologised  Unwin. 


ON  THE  RYEFORD  ROAD  19 

"Oh,  quite  right,  of  course,"  said  Delamere.  "I  only 
wanted  to  point  out  that  I  may  easily  stay  here  unde- 
tected. As  for  the  letter  ...  I  suppose  you  saw  it  was 
the  last  one  I  ever  got  from  my  mother?  Poor  sort  of 
sentimentality,  wasn't  it?  To  read  her  letter,  and  look 
down  at  her  old  house,  after  breaking  her  heart,  eh?" 

Unwin  turned  to  the  window. 

"She'll — she'll  be  glad  if  she  knows,  you'  know,"  he 
blurted  out  awkwardly  at  last. 

For  the  first  time  Delamere 's  look  of  cynical  weariness 
changed  a  little. 

"You're  a  kind  chap,  Unwin,"  he  said.  "If  I  believed 
in  Providence,  I  might  think  He'd  sent  you  to  give  me  a 
lift  over  this  last  stile.  But  I  can't — I've  seen  too  much." 
He  coughed  violently,  then  added  in  a  different  tone :  "  So 
it's  agreed?  You  keep  the  secret  you  chanced  to  discovert 
while  I  was  lying  unconscious?" 

' '  If  you  put  it  in  that  way,  I  have  no  alternative, ' '  said 
Unwin  gravely.  "And  now  I  must  be  returning  Chubb 's 
cab  or  there  '11  be  a  hue-and-cry  after  it.  I  stole  it  from  an 
afternoon  party." 

"Ah!  those  parties!"  said  Delamere.  "The  cream  and 
the  little  cakes  and  the  best  china  ...  all  going  on  just 
the  same.  What  a  blessed  sense  of  permanence  it  gives 
one  to  come  back  here,  Unwin!  I  s'pose  that  was  what 
drew  me  ...  after  all  the  buffeting  ..."  He  coughed 
again  and  held  out  his  hand.  ' '  Good-bye.  Thank  you  for 
all  you  have  done.  You'll  look  me  up  sometimes?" 

"That's  all  right.  Of  course  I  will,"  said  Unwin. 
"Good-bye!" 

Thus  the  two  men  parted,  covering  their  emotion  with 
that  cloak  of  light  indifference  which  foreigners  find  so 
strange,  but  which  has  grown  to  be  a  fashion  with  a  cer- 
tain type  of  Englishman  as  inevitable  as  wearing  trousers. 

Unwin  passed  the  landlord  of  the  inn  in  going  through 
the  doorway,  and  the  man  gave  him  a  rather  surprised 
greeting. 


20  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Driving  Chub's  cab  yourself,  sir?" 

"Yes.  Chubb 's  busy,"  said  Unwin,  with  truth,  jumping 
on  the  box. 

"Well,  the  mare's  a  good  'un  to  stand,  however,"  said 
the  landlord,  and  at  this  tribute  the  patient  animal  flicked 
her  tail  gently,  as  one  who  murmurs:  "You  see,  even  an 
outsider  is  forced  to  do  me  justice."  This  attitude  im- 
pressed Unwin,  causing  him  to  remark  pleasantly — 

"Gee-up,  Griselda." 

So  the  cab  trundled  away. down  the  road,  the  landlord 
staring  after  it.  That  burst  of  sunshine  which  illuminated 
the  streets  of  Wendlebury  shone  also  on  Unwin 's  blunt, 
honest  features.  He  whistled  as  he  went,  his  lithe  young 
figure  perched  easily  in  the  midst  of  Chubb 's  ample  seat- 
ing accommodation ;  and  he  noted  a  jocund  air  of  spring- 
on-the-way  about  the  fields  and  hedges.  Everything  start- 
ing afresh,  he  thought,  and  a  jolly  time  coming.  "What  a 

pity  human  beings  couldn't Poor  Delamere,  going 

out  for  ever  in  a  roadside  pub.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  he 
wouldn't.  .  .  .  Perhaps  spring  went  all  through  creation 
and  didn't  just  stop  at  trees  and  things.  .  .  . 

He  changed  his  tune  and  whistled  meditatively:  "John 
Brown's  body  is  a-mouldering  in  the  grave,  But  his  soul 
goes  marching  on."  Then  he  saw  Chubb  come  panting 
round  the  next  corner. 

"Well,  Chubb!"  he  called  out  agreeably.  "Here  we 
Are!" 

Chubb,  out  of  breath,  incommoded  by  a  heavy  overcoat 
And  unused  to  pedestrian  exercise,  was  naturally  outraged. 

"  'Well,  Chubb!'  "  he  bellowed.  "I'll  'Well,  Chubb!' 
you.  Stealing  my  cab." 

"  I  'm  bringing  it  back.  On  my  soul  and  honour,  I  am, ' ' 
said  Unwin. 

"I  should  have  gone  to  the  police,  only  I  heard  my  cab 
turn  down  this  road.  I  should  know  the  sound  anywheres," 
panted  Chubb,  catching  at  the  bridle. 

Unwin  jumped  down  and  patted  the  mare  with  affection. 


ON  THE  EYEFORD  ROAD  21 

"T  don't  wonder,"  he  responded  cordially.  "If  Gri- 
selda  were  mine,  I  should  recognise  the  fall  of  her  fairy 
feet  among  a  million." 

Chubb  turned  from  crimson  to  purple. 

"Fairy  feet  be  condemned  ! "  he  said.  "I  know  the  mare 
would  never  run  away  by  herself." 

"You  were  right  to  keep  your  fajth  in  Griselda,"  said 
Unwin.  "She  did  not  elope.  She  never  would  have 
eloped.  She  was  forcibly  abducted." 

Chubb  replied,  but  not  in  terms  to  be  reproduced,  that 
his  mare  was  named  Brown  Bess.  "First  you  steal  my 
cab  .  .  .  then  you  insult  me.  ..."  And  he  concluded 
that  it  was  a  burning  shame  to  treat  a  man  of  full  habit 
as  he  had  been  "tret." 

Unwin  saw  this  now  his  sense  of  fun  ceased  to  have  the 
upper  hand,  and  he  was  seized  with  compunction. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Chubb,"  he  said.  "I  know  it  has 
caused  you  a  lot  of  bother." 

"Then  what  did  you  do  it  for?"  said  Chubb,  beginning 
to  simmer  down  a  little. 

"Oh,  for — for  a  joke,"  said  Unwin,  seizing  on  an  excuse 
which  Chubb  might  believe. 

"Joking,"  said  Chubb,  "has  been  the  ruin  of  many  a 
better  man  than  you,  Mr.  Unwin.  Should  I  be  looked  up 
to  as  I  am  if  I  joked  about  the  place  same  as  you  do?  Of 
course  I  shouldn't.  And  them  as  makes  jokes  has  to  pay 
for  them.  Heavy,  they  has  to  pay." 

Unwin  felt  in  his  pocket  and  held  out  a  pound. 

"Will  that  do?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Chubb,  taking  it  and  mounting' 
the  box.  "Now  I  have  to  go  and  fetch  all  them  ladies 
home.  And  what  am  I  to  say  to  them,  hey?  Do  you  ex- 
pect I  can  pass  all  this  off  with  a  joke  to  them?'' 

"Well,  I  really  should  if  I  were  you,  Chubb,"  said  Un- 
win, considering  the  matter  carefully.  ' '  Much  easier  than, 
going  into  a  lot  of  explanations,  you  know." 


22  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"And  what  joke  should  you  em-ploy,  sir?"  said  Chubb 
with  heavy  irony.  r<I  think  I  see  myself — and  Miss  Har- 
riet— and  Miss  Amelia — and  Mrs.  Delamere Oh,  I 

think  I  see  myself  joking." 

Unwin  brought  out  another  pound.  He  was  not  a  gold 
mine,  but  it  had  to  be.  "I  particularly  don't  want  any 
one  to  know  that  I  took  the  cab,  Chubb, ' '  he  said. 

"But  what  am  I  to  say?"  demanded  Chubb. 

"Why,  simply  that  your  mare  ran  away,"  said  Unwin. 
"No  harm  in  that!" 

At  this  moment  Griselda  turned  her  meek  head  and 
blinked  once  at  Chubb.  It  was  enough.  The  slavish  devo- 
tion of  a  lifetime  had  found  its  due  reward. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Chubb.  "That  I  will  not  say.  Not 
for  no  money!" 

"But  we  simply  must  think  of  something,"  urged  Un- 
win. So  Chubb  thought,  breathing  hard  through  his  nose. 
Finally  he  was  delivered  of  an  idea. 

"I  dessay,"  he  announced,  "that  I  could  remark  I 
caught  my  cab  on  the  Eyeford  Road.  That's  true.  And 
not  a  word  against  anybody.  And  yet  it  tells  nothing. ' ' 

' '  Chubb, ' '  said  Unwin,  ' '  why  are  you  not  a  Prime  Min- 
ister? That  is  excellent  indeed." 

Thus  they  parted,  but  at  the  corner  Chubb  leaned  over 
the  side  of  the  cab,  so  that  his  red  face  shone  round  the 
edge  of  it  like  a  rising  sun,  and  called  out  wheezily — 

"Caught  her  on  the  Ryeford  Road!  Ho!  ho!  Caught 
her  on  the  Ryeford  Road!" 

For  he  was  enjoying  the  exquisite,  primeval  flavour  of 
his  first  joke. 

After  a  time  Unwin  followed  the  cab  into  Wendlebury; 
and  just  as  he  passed  the  Miss  Pritchards'  house  a  little 
bevy  of  ladies  stepped  forth  into  the  pleasant  evening.  As 
the  young  man  approached,  they  all  turned  to  him,  smiling 
and  bowing.  He  thought  how  charming  Pauline  West- 
cott  looked  in  that  pale  light,  and  how  those  ladies  in 


ON  THE  RYEFORD  ROAD  23 

their  best  dresses  seemed  a  natural  part  of  the  place  and 
hour. 

Then  he  passed  on,  very  pleased  with  the  way  in  which 
he  had  managed  the  affair  of  Chubb 's  cab,  but  forgetting 
all  about  Mrs.  Chubb. 


CHAPTER  III 

MRS.    CHUBB 

MRS.  CHUBB  was  a  pale,  moon-faced  woman  with  a 
sharp  elbow,  very  red  hands,  and  an  expression  re- 
sembling that  of  Griselda;  she  also  had  the  same  attitude 
towards  Chubb. 

"Now,"  she  said,  handing  a  steaming  plate  of  tripe  and 
onions  to  her  lord;  "how's  that?" 

He  tasted  it  with  the  air  of  a  tea-taster  sampling  a  fresh 
consignment,  his  wife  eyeing  him  anxiously  the  while. 

"Too  salt!"  he  pronounced. 

Mrs.  Chubb  rubbed  her  bony  hands  together  triumph- 
antly. 

"None  in,"  she  said. 

"Then,"  he  said,  turning  upon  her,  "there  ought  to  be. 
Whoever  heard  of  anybody  cooking  tripe  without  salt? 
I  knew  there  was  something  wrong." 

"But  it  eats  all  right  otherways?"  she  asked.  "I  tried 
a  bit  and  it  was  as  tender  as  chicken." 

"You  women  are  always  eating,"  replied  Chubb.  "A 
curran'  here,  a  lump  o'  sugar  there — and  then  saying  af 
meal-times  you  aren't  hungry!" 

"Oh,  yes,  we  get  plenty,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  who  cer- 
tainly did  not  look  over-fed.  "Trust  us  for  that.  Now, 
here's  the  end  of  cheese  toasted  up  to  f oiler.  Tastier-like 
than  cold,  isn't  it?" 

"Sits  heavier  afterwards,"  said  Chubb.  "However, 
here  goes!"  And  eating  with  a  relish  he  was  unable  to 
conceal,  he  continued,  "My  word!  You  may  be  thankful 

24 


MRS.  CHUBB  25 

to  have  a  man  that  sits  at  home  instead  of  gadding  about 
o'  nights  Lke  most  do." 

''I  am  thankful,  Chubb,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb  fervently. 
"Here's  your  pipe,  and  now  I'll  poke  up  the  fire." 

So  hie  sat  down  in  his  armchair;  the  clock  ticked  cheer- 
fully; everything  which  could  shine,  shone;  the  purring 
of  the  cat  mingled  with  a  gentle  sound  of  crockery  being 
washed  up  at  the  sink.  Mr.  Chubb  gradually  forgave  Mrs. 
Chubb  for  not  having  provided  him  with  anything  to  for- 
give. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  holding  out  two  sovereigns  on 
his  palm.  "What  do  you  think  to  that,  over  and  above 
a  day's  takings,  eh?" 

Mrs.  Chubb  stared  at  the  money  for  a  moment  without 
speaking;  then  she  said  in  a  whisper — 

"Chubb,  you  haven't  done  anything  wrong?" 

"Did  you  ever  know  me  do  anything  wrong?"  retorted 
Chubb  indignantly. 

"No,  no,  Chubby,"  deprecated  Mrs.  Chubb.  "But  it 
aeems  such  a  lot  extra.  How  did  you  make  it?" 

Mr.  Chubb  began  to  heave  as  he  had  done  on  the  cab 
at  the  bend  of  the  Ryeford  Road,  and  his  wife's  round 
eyes  distended  still  further. 

' '  Ho !  ho ! "  he  laughed,  with  rather  a  grinding  sound 
as  if  the  laughter  machine  were  often  out  of  use  and 
needed  greasing.  ' '  I  got  it  through  a  clever  thing  I  said. ' ' 

Mrs.  Chubb  shook  her  head :  there  were  limits  even  with 
her,  and  he  had  reached  them. 

"No,"  she  said.  "You  may  keep  secrets  from  me  if 
you  like,  but  you  won 't  get  me  to  believe  a  tale  like  that. ' ' 

"It's  gospel  truth,"  he  said. 

"Then  what  was  it?"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 

He  stared  at  her,  jingling  the  money,  and  then  said 
reluctantly — 

"I  promised  not  to  tell." 

"Telling  your  wife's  not  telling,"  replied  Mrs.  Chubb. 


26  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"I  never  neard  of  such  a  thing.  What!  Husband  and 
wife  are  one.  The  Prayer-book  says  so." 

"Well,"  said  Chubb,  "the  cab  was  standing  outside 
Mrs.  Dickson's,  and  it  went." 

"Went?"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 

"Went,"  said  Mr.  Chubb.  "No  matter  how;  no  matter 
what  for. ' '  Then  he  began  to  heave  again  and  gasped  out : 
"I  caught — ho!  ho! — I  caught  it  on  the  Eyeford  Road." 

Mrs.  Chubb  turned  a  little  pale. 

"If  it  wasn't  you,  Chubb,  I  should  think  you'd  been 
drinking.  There's  nothing  clever  in  that  as  I  can  see." 

Chubb  abruptly  ceased  heaving  and  glared  at  his  wife 
with  all  the  injured  ferocity  of  the  brilliant  conversa- 
tionalist snubbed  in  his  own  home. 

"You  wouldn't  see,"  he  said  bitterly.  "No  man's  own 
wife  ever  does.  That's  at  the  bottom  of  a  lot " 

"But  it  isn't  clever,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chubb,  weeping. 
"Nobody  could  say  so  but  a  fool." 

"D'you  call  Mr.  Unwin  a  fool?"  Then  he  clapped  his 
hand  before  his  mouth.  "Oh  Lord!" 

"Mr.  Unwin?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chubb. 

"Forget  I  mentioned  Mr.  Unwin,"  he  commanded. 

"But  I  can't,"  gulped  Mrs.  Chubb,  wiping  her  eyes. 
"You  must  own  I  do  most  things  you  tell  me,  Chubb,  but 
forgetting  and  remembering's  like  being  sick.  .  .  .  There 
it  is.  ...  You  can't  get  no  control  over  it."  She  paused. 
"Then  Mr.  Unwin  gave  you  the  money.  Was  it  him  that 
took  the  cab,  then?  And  whatever  for?" 

"I  never  said  he  did,"  grunted  Chubb. 

"Oh!"  replied  Mrs.  Chubb,  returning  to  her  crockery 
in  the  back  kitchen. 

The  next  day  was  her  weekly  charing  morning  at  Mrs. 
Dickson's,  and  she  repaired  thither  with  her  round  eyes 
and  pale  moon-face  as  expressionless  as  usual,  but  with 
an  amount  of  seething,  unsatisfied  curiosity  inside  which 
appeared  likely  to  explode  her  corset  laces. 


MRS.  CHUBB  27 

'At  eleven  o'clock,  she  and  Eva  sat  down  to  cocoa  and 
conversation. 

' '  Queer  thing  about  the  cab  clear  vanishing  from  before 
our  house  yesterday,"  said  Eva.  "I  hear  he  caught  it  on 
the  Ryeford  Road — so  he  told  the  ladies." 

"Aye,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  regarding  her  jam  tart. 

"Funny,  though/'  pursued  Eva,  "that  Mr.  Chubb 
should  be  able  to  catch  even  your  slow  old  mare  .  .  .  with 
his  figger  and  all.  ..." 

"He's  a  fine  figger  of  a  man,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 

"Well,"  said  Eva,  "there's  plenty  of  him!"  Then  she 
began  to  laugh.  "Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  You  never  did  see 
anything  so  blank  in  all  your  life  as  he  looked  when  he 
went  to  the  door  and  there  wasn  't  no  cab  there. ' ' 

Mrs.  Chubb  looked  up  quickly,  holding  her  tart  sus- 
pended between  her  plate  and  mouth. 

"Chubb  didn't  see  it  go?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  He  was  having  a  cup  of  tea  in 
the  kitchen." 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "That's  it  then." 

Eva  bent  forward  eagerly. 

' '  That 's  what  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  putting  her  cup  and 
plate  together.  "Now  then,  it's  tl-3  top  staircase  nezt,  I 
suppose?" 

"You  think  there  was  something  mysterious  about  the 
cab  going?"  said  Eva. 

Mrs.  Chubb  pursed  her  lips  and  nodded. 

"I  do.    The  mare  wouldn't  move  of  herself." 

"You  think  somebody  took  it?" 

She  nodded  again,  having  immense  enjoyment  in  taking 
the  superior  place  from  her  friend,  who  usually  occupied 
it. 

"But  who  would  do  such  a  silly  trick?"  said  Eva.  "Not 
but  what  a  cousin  o'  mine  stole  a  handcart  for  a  practical 
joke  and  got  into  a  nice  mess  over  it.  But  he  was  only 
thirteen." 


28  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"I  swore  to  Chubb  I  wouldn't  tell,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb, 
"and  I  won't."  She  took  up  her  dustpan  and  brush. 
"Young  Mr.  Unwin  been  here  lately?"  she  asked  in  a 
casual  tone. 

' '  Oh ! "  shrieked  Eva.  ' '  It  was  never  him  ?  But  what 
on  earth  made  him  do  it?" 

"Hush!"  cried  Mrs.  Chubb.  "I  never  said  so.  I  can't 
help  what  you  think.  You  shouldn't  think!" 

' '  Us  Martins  was  always  beggars  to  think, ' '  Eva  replied. 
"That's  what  mother  said  when  our  Ben  brought  home 
a  pickle  bottle  full  of  tadpoles  because  she'd  been  ordered 
a  fish  diet ;  and  she  never  spoke  a  truer  word. ' ' 

"Well,  you  can't  say  I  told  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Chubb; 
and  she  went  upstairs  with  dustpan  and  brush,  while 
Eva  carried  the  eleven  o'clock  tea-tray  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

Mrs.  Dickson,  who  managed  to  be  a  rich  woman  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  living  on  half  her  income  and  spend- 
ing the  other  half  on  extras,  turned  to  welcome  the  little 
meal  and  hear  at  the  same  time  any  news  that  Mrs.  Chubb 
might  have  chanced  to  relate.  She  possessed  an  extraor- 
dinary clear,  simple  nature,  and  since  she  could  no  longer 
go  out  into  the  world,  she  made  the  best  of  all  that  came 
into  her  straight-windowed  sitting-room.  But  her  obvious 
pleasure  in  any  scrap  of  gossip  that  would  stir  the  rather 
stagnant  atmosphere  of  her  life  caused  Eva — and  Pauline 
too,  for  that  matter — to  become  undeniable  newsmongers. 
So  it  was  with  joy  that  Eva  put  down  the  tray  and  began 
in  the  peculiar  throaty  tone  used  only  for  spicy  and  im- 
portant items — 

"You  mustn't  breathe  a  word;  but  I  believe  I  know 
who  took  Chubb 's  cab." 

"Took  it?"  said  Aunt  Dickson. 

"Yes.  Ran  away  with  it."  She  paused  impressively. 
"Mr.  Unwin!" 

"Ridiculous!"  said  Pauline.  "Why  on  earth  should 
Mr.  Unwin  run  away  with  Chubb 's  old  cab?" 


MRS.  CHUBB  29 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  unless  he'd  had  a  drop  too 
much,"  said  Eva. 

"Really,  Eva,"  said  Aunt  Dickson  sharply.  "You  must 
not  suggest  a  thing  like  that  unless  you  know  it  to  be 
true." 

"No,   'm,"  said  Eva,  retreating,  rather  crestfallen. 

But  as  the  door  closed  on  her,  the  ladies  glanced  at  each 
other. 

"Terrible  .  .  .  this  Wendlebury  gossip,"  ejaculated 
Aunt  Dickson.  ' '  I  know  few  men  less  likely  to  drink  than 
young  Unwin,  though  some  foolish  people  might  misun- 
derstand his  lively  manner." 

"I  don't  see  how  they  could,"  agreed  Pauline,  "except- 
ing that  we  are  all  so  dull  here  that  perhaps  a  really  jolly 
person  might  seem  drunk."  With  which  rather  acid  re- 
mark she  left  the  room. 

Eva  also  was  feeling  irritable  because  she  was  quite  un- 
used to  being  snubbed  by  her  mistress,  and  Mrs.  Chubb 
was  not  sorry,  therefore,  when  her  day's  work  came  to 
an  end. 

"Good-bye,"  sighed  the  charwoman  at  the  door,  bulg- 
ing bass  in  hand.  "I  dessay  I  shall  have  a  real  good  cry 
when  I  get  home." 

"What  for?"  said  Eva  unsympathetically.  "You've 
had  a  plum  loaf  given  you,  and  a  jar  of  dripping,  and  half 
a  pork  pie." 

"Oh,  no  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "I  just  feel  low  in 
my  spirits,  that's  all.  Don't  you  never  know  what  it  is  to 
want  a  good  cry  without  knowing  why  you  want  it?" 

"I  do,"  said  Eva.  "Them's  the  times  when  I  go  and 
curl  my  hair  and  put  my  beaded  shoes  on." 

Then  she  banged  the  door  on  Mrs.  Chubb,  who  trailed 
slowly  down  the  street,  wondering  if  Chubb  would  like 
the  pork  pie  for  his  supper. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST 

ELEVENS  is  a  repast  not  known  to  everybody  because 
the  proper  enjoyment  of  it  entails  breakfast  at  eight- 
thirty  and  a  morning  of  busy  leisure.  In  Aunt  Dickson's 
house,  however,  the  little  meal  reached  perfection,  and  it 
was  remarkable  how  many  Wendlebury  ladies  chanced  to 
pass  about  eleven  o'clock  feeling  suddenly  inspired  to 
cheer  Aunt  Dickson  up,  though  they  themselves  disap- 
proved of  mid-morning  refreshment.  But  to  please  the  in- 
valid they  always  did  violence  to  their  own  digestions  in 
the  end,  and  drew  near  the  round  table  where  they  ate 
and  drank  with  well-simulated  enjoyment.  Aunt  Dick- 
son  beamed  so  jollily  over  the  thick  cream  and  fragrant 
tea  and  little  round  cakes  that  they  no  doubt  felt  rewarded 
for  their  unselfishness,  and  exerted  themselves  to  the  ut- 
most. One  morning,  indeed,  Pauline  was  surprised  to  no- 
tice that  three  thin  ladies  without  an  appetite  between 
them  ate  thirteen  cakes  and  drank  seven  cups  of  tea,  which 
shows  once  more  what  the  flesh  can  accomplish  when  the 
spirit  is  animated  by  conscious  virtue. 

That  happened,  however,  during  Pauline's  first  year  at 
Wendlebury ;  now  she  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  like 
going  to  bed  at  ten  and  knowing  everybody  by  sight  who 
passed  the  window. 

On  this  particular  morning  it  was  Miss  Amelia  Pritch- 
ard  only  who  tripped  up  the  spotless  white  steps  and  was 
ushered  as  usual  into  the  comfortable  sitting-room.  But 
there  was  something  quite  unusual  about  the  manner  in 
which  she  waited  for  Eva  to  retire. 

30 


MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST  31 

' '  I  had  to  come ! ' '  she  exclaimed  hysterically  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  closed.  ' '  I  couldn  't  bear  it  any  longer.  Har- 
riet is  away  for  the  day!"  After  which  explosion  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  wept  bit- 
terly. 

Her  friends  gazed  at  her  in  great  concern. 

"Harriet  has  only  gone  to  see  your  niece  at  Ryeford 
Magna,  I  suppose?"  suggested  Aunt  Dickson  finally. 

"Yes,"  sobbed  Miss  Amelia,  "but  she  is  so  much 
stronger  minded  than  I  am.  I  can't  bear  the  strain 
alone. ' ' 

"What  strain?"  demanded  Pauline,  giving  Miss  Ame- 
lia's shoulder  a  gentle  shake.  "Do  tell  us  what  strain?" 

"I  don't  know  if  I  dare  .  .  .  Harriet  ..."  answered 
the  poor  lady  incoherently.  Then  she  started  up  with  an 
' '  Excuse  me ! ' '  peered  out  into  the  passage,  closed  the 
door,  murmured,  "No,  Eva  appears  to  be  upstairs,"  and 
sat  down  again  with  the  air  of  a  white  mouse  at  bay. 
"Pauline,"  she  continued,  in  a  tone  of  eager  serious- 
ness, "you  may  perhaps  have  remarked  that  we  used  the 
little  end  sewing-room  for  the  hats  and  cloaks  at  our  party 
instead  of  taking  our  guests  to  my  bedroom  as  usual?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  said  Pauline. 

"Well,  there  was  a  reason.  That  is  the  secret  which 
Harriet  will  not  allow  me  to  tell." 

Aunt  Dickson  and  Pauline  glanced  at  each  other;  it 
seemed  so  incredible  that  the  Misses  Pritchard  should 
have  any  disgraceful  skeleton  to  hide  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 
you  never  know. 

"I  don't  like  secrets,"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "Half  the 
misery  and  nine-tenths  of  the  bother  in  the  world  is  caused 
by  someobdy  telling  somebody  else  something  in  confidence 
that  they  might  just  as  well  shout  from  the  house-tops." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  said  Miss  Amelia,  eagerly 
swallowing  advice  which  agreed  with  her  own  earnest 'de- 
sire. 

' '  Sure  of  it, ' '  said  Aunt  Dickson,  who  began  to  be  very 


32  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

curious  indeed,  and  may  also  have  been  unconsciously  in- 
fluenced by  mixed  motives. 

"When  I  tell  you  that  I  am  obliged  to  clean  my  own 
room  and  cannot  have  the  gas  repaired,  though  it  jumps 
to  an  extent  which  is  perfectly  awful  in  the  present  cir- 
cumstances," pursued  Miss  Amelia,  "you  will  know  that 
the  matter  is  serious." 

"But  what  is  it?"  cried  Aunt  Dickson,  now  impatient 
beyond  all  bounds.  ' '  Can 't  you  tell  us  in  two  words  what 
it  is?" 

"I  can,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  in  a  queer  hollow  tone, 
leaning  forward  and  fixing  her  red-rimmed  eyes  on  Aunt 
Dickson.  "That  is  just  what  I  can  do.  Our  ghost!" 

Aunt  Dickson  and  Pauline  started;  then  they  cried,  al- 
most together — 

"You  must  be  joking!" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  joking?"  said  Miss  Amelia  sim- 
ply, and,  gazing  at  her,  they  felt  the  keen  justice  of  the 
rebuke. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  doubt  your  word,"  faltered  Aunt 
Dickson  apologetically.  "But  people's  imaginations  run 
away  with  them  sometimes." 

"So  Harriet  pretends  to  think,"  replied  Miss  Amelia. 
"She  is  afraid  of  being  called  a  nervous  old  maid  and 
so  makes  out,  even  to  me,  that  it  is  the  wind  in  the  chim- 
ney."  She  paused,  and  continued  solemnly:  "Mrs.  Dick- 
son,  did  you  ever  hear  a  wind  say  Mary  Jane?" 

"Eh!  What!"  said  Aunt  Dickson:  then  she  added 
soothingly,  for  she  really  did  begin  to  fear  for  her  old 
friend's  reason:  "Oh,  I  never  heard  of  the  wind  saying 
that,  exactly  .  .  .  but  poets  and  people  .  .  .  there  used 
to  be  a  pretty  song  in  my  youth  called,  'What  are  the  wild 
waves  saying?'  .  .  .  much  the  same  ..." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Miss  Amelia,  agitated  beyond  all  con- 
sideration of  politeness.  "That's  how  Harriet  talks.  She 
even  imitates  the  wind  howling  to  convince  me,  like  this: 


MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST  33: 

Moo — oo — ooh!  Mary  Jane!"  and  Miss  Amelia  strove  to 
personate  a  down-draught  saying  those  words. 

Aunt  Dickson  leaned  back,  the  tension  of  her  attitude 
slightly  relieved. 

"Well — it  might  be  so,"  she  said. 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  pursued  Miss  Amelia,  drawing 
her  chair  closer.  "You  may  think  what  you  like  about 
Mary  Jane,  as  I  remarked  to  Harriet,  but  nobody  on 
earth  can  make  a  natural  wind  say  '  Damn  your  eye ! '  ' 

"No,"  agreed  Aunt  Dickson,  staring  aghast. 

"You  are  shocked,  naturally,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "I 
have  reached  that  stage  when  nothing  seems  to  matter. 'r 
She  lowered  her  voice.  "But  I  say  my  prayers  downstairs 
in  the  sitting-room,  inconvenient  though  it  is,  with  the 
maid  in  and  out  and  so  on.  I  really  could  not  min- 
gle .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not,"  agreed  Aunt  Dickson  hastily.  "How 
strange !  How  dreadfully  unpleasant !  Pauline. ' ' 

"Yes,  Aunt," 

"Do  see  that  the  door  really  is  quite  closed,  dear." 

"But  when  did  you  first  hear  it?"  asked  Pauline,  re- 
turning from  the  inspection. 

"A  month  ago.  The  very  day  when  I  told  Harriet  I 
had  a  headache  and  could  not  help  to  do  the  china  closet 
out,  though  I  was  really  quite  well  and  only  wished  to 
finish  a  crochet  pattern.  I  sometimes  wonder  ..."  Miss 
Amelia  paused  on  that,  tentatively. 

"No!"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "The  Lord  would  never 
send  a  ghost  for  a  little  thing  like  that,  I  know.  Too 
busy.  Let  us  put  the  matter  aside  for  a  moment  and  have 
a  cup  of  tea.  I  always  think  tea  clears  the  intellect." 

So  Miss  Amelia,  protesting  as  usual,  was  induced  to 
drink  two  cups  of  hot,  comforting,  well-creamed  tea,  and 
then  felt  so  greatly  refreshed  that  she  was  able  to  make 
a  suggestion. 

"There  is  Mr.  Unwin,"  she  said.  "If  it  should  be  any 
sort  of  real  wind  he  might  be  able  to  help  us." 


34  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Architects  do  know  all  about  chimneys,  of  course," 
agreed  Aunt  Dickson  hopefully.  "Why  not  go  and  ask 
him  to  look  at  yours  while  Miss  Harriet  is  away?" 

But  at  this  proposal  Miss  Amelia  showed  signs  of  be- 
coming hysterical  once  more. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!"  she  said,  wringing  her  hands.  "I 
couldn't  possibly.  I  should  break  down  in  Mr.  Un win's 
office  and  that  would  be  simply  dreadful.  Only  fancy  if 
any  one  else  came  in!  What  would  they  think?" 

"Write  a  note,  then,"  said  Pauline. 

Miss  Amelia  shook  her  head,  very  much  distressed  and 
yet,  beneath  it  all,  superior. 

"No,  my  dear.  A  delicate  matter  like  this  is  not  to 
be  put  down  in  writing.  My  sister  might  hear  of  it  and 
she  would  never  forgive  me.  She  always  says  that  the 
devil  invented  paper  and  pens  for  fools  to  give  them- 
selves away  with.  Poor  father's  expression,  originally. 
Harriet  has  at  times  quite  a  masculine  turn  of  thought." 
She  paused  and  added  ingratiatingly:  "I  suppose  Pauline 
would  not  care  to  step  as  far  as  Mr.  Unwin's  office  and  put 
the  matter  before  him?  It  is  a  pleasant  morning  though 
dull,  and  young  people  like  exercise  in  the  fresh  air. ' ' 

"I  really  don't  see,"  began  Pauline,  not  attracted  by 
the  prospect,  when  Miss  Amelia  broke  in  tragically — 

"How  can  you  refuse  when  you  know  it  is  my  last 
hope*  You  are  so  clear-headed,  you  could  explain  the 
matter  so  lucidly." 

Pauline  felt  doubtful,  but  pity  for  poor,  troubled  Miss 
Amelia  prevailed  over  her  reluctance,  and  very  soon  she 
was  walking  down  the  High  Street,  jostled  by  market- 
people  and  endeavouring  to  frame  sentences  which  should 
make  Unwin  see  the  affair  in  a  not  too  ridiculous  light. 
'But  the  task  was  beyond  her,  and  on  being  ushered  into 
a  small  private  office  hung  with  plans  and  engravings, 
she  could  only  state  bluntly — 

"I  have  come  from  Miss  Amelia  Pritchard,  who  asks 
you  to  go  to  her  house  at  once,  if  possible." 


MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST  35 

"All  right,"  said  Unwin  easily,  "do  sit  down.  So  nice 
to  see  a  person  here  with  coloured  hair,  you  know.  Most 
of  my  few  clients  were  left  me  by  my  father,  and  they 
are  white  or  grey.  Makes  me  keep  looking  at  mine  to  see 
if  it's  turning  too;  age  is  so  infectious,  isn't  it?" 

"Very,"  said  Pauline,  perching  lightly  on  the  edge  of 
the  great  armchair.  "When  I  think  how  I  felt  when  I 
was  twenty  ..." 

"Ah,  twenty!" 

And  they  sighed  together,  united  by  the  bond  of  their 
present  advanced  years.  Then,  reluctantly,  for  it  was 
pleasant  to  talk  of  old  age  with  Pauline,  Unwin  returned 
to  the  matter  in  hand.  "What  does  Miss  Amelia  want 
this  time?"  he  asked.  "On  the  last  occasion  it  was  the 
kitchen  sink.  Not  that  I  mind  .  .  .  the  Wendlebury  la- 
dies simply  can't  help  mixing  me  up  with  the  plumber." 

"The — the  affair  is  rather  difficult  to  explain,"  hesi- 
tated Pauline. 

"Oh!  Never  mind.  I  quite  understand,"  said  Unwin 
hastily.  For  he  thought — such  things  happening  in  life 
though  romance  naturally  slurs  them  over — that  there 
was  something  wrong  with  the  domestic  drainage  system 
which  delicacy  forbade  her  to  mention.  "I'll  take  a 
plumber  along  with  me." 

"A  plumber!"  cried  Pauline.  "But  what's  the  earthly 
use  of  a  plumber  when  it's  a  ghost  that  may  be  a  wind 
...  or  a  wind  that  may  be  a  ghost  ..."  She  broke  off 
and  looked  anxiously  at  him.  ' '  Oh,  dear,  I  know  it  seems 
awfully  odd." 

"No,  no,"  said  Unwin  soothingly,  reflecting  that  her 
eyes  were  after  all  much  too  bright,  and  that  she  had 
been  very  ill  indeed  with  some  sort  of  breakdown  when 
she  first  came  to  Wendlebury. 

"At  least,  it  sounds  like  a  wind,  but  it  says  'Mary 
Jane,'  "  continued  Pauline,  struggling  for  the  lucidity 
commended  by  Miss  Amelia.  "It  says  it  in  a  strange 


36  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

sort  of  way,  of  course ;  like  this,  Moo — ooh — ooh ! ' '  and 
she  also  tried  to  impersonate  a  down-draught  with  a  super- 
natural vocabulary. 

"Ah,  yes.  Nothing  in  that,"  said  Unwin  easily,  but  he 
took  up  his  hat.  "I  had  an  old  aunt  who  had  a  wind  in 
her  chimney  that  howled  good-night  as  regular  as  clock- 
work. And  now,"  he  concluded,  holding  open  the  door 
with  alacrity,  "I  suppose  we  had  better  be  stepping 
along." 

All  desire  to  detain  his  guest  in  polite  dalliance  had 
completely  vanished.  But  he  felt  very  sorry  indeed  for 
her,  and  exerted  himself  as  they  walked  along  to  pour 
forth  a  stream  of  light,  soothing  conversation.  Beyond  all 
things  he  was  anxious  to  avoid  a  repetition  of  the  windy 
Mary  Jane  in  Wendlebury  High  Street,  and  he  therefore 
flowed  smoothly  over  all  her  replies,  not  allowing  her  to 
make  a  single  connected  speech,  because  the  simplest  thing 
might  excite  a  person  in  her  state  of  mind.  So  Pauline 
finally  gave  up  any  attempt  at  conversation,  merely  glanc- 
ing at  him  from  time  to  time,  with  a  rather  odd  expres- 
sion. No  man,  she  reflected,  could  possibly  be  a  drunkard 
and  look  as  he  did;  there  was  something  so  especially 
pleasant  and  alive  about  him.  Yet  the  idea  of  drunken- 
ness suggested  by  Eva  in  this  connection  did  just  occur 
to  her  before  it  was  dismissed.. 

They  were  both  greatly  relieved,  therefore,  when  they 
arrived  at  the  house  and  saw  Miss  Amelia's  anxious  face 
peering  from  the  open  door. 

"Walk  in,"  she  said,  using  the  voice  which  she  kept 
for  the -funerals  of  people  not  nearly  related.  "This  is 
indeed  kind,  Mr.  Unwin."  Then  she  abruptly  altered  her 
tone,  grasped  Pauline's  sleeve  and  whispered  urgently: 
"You  can't  go.  I  insist  upon  your  remaining.  Don't 
you  know  I  have  to  accompany  him  into  my  bedroom  ? ' ' 

Pauline,  who  had  been  about  to  depart,  was  moved  by 
this  appeal  and  followed  Miss  Amelia  up  the  narrow  stair- 
case, where  the  poor  lady  nearly  broke  her  neck  in  turn- 


MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST  37 

ing  round  to  twitter  nervous  remarks  about  the  weather 
so  that  the  situation  might  be  carried  off  with  decorum. 

Unwin,  who  came  last,  felt  very  large  and  coarse  among 
so  much  white  floor-cloth  and  lacy  cleanliness,  and  this  im- 
pression was  increased  when  he  stood  in  Miss  Amelia's 
room  where  the  very  chair  seats  had  little  white  mats 
upon  them  edged  with  fine  needlework,  and  the  bed  was 
like  a  flounced  mid- Victorian  lady  prepared  for  a  party. 

"This,"  said  Miss  Amelia  solemnly,  "is  the  haunted 
room. : ' 

"The  what?"  said  Unwin  staring.  "Then  you  really 
did  send  that  message  about — er — Mary  Jane?" 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "Has  not  Miss 
Westcott  told  you  all  about  it?" 

"Oh — er — yes,"  stammered  Unwin.  "I  didn't  quite 
understand.  I  mean  ..."  He  walked  to  the  fireplace, 
pulling  his  wits  together.  "So  you  hear  the  noise  some- 
where about  this  spot,  I  gather?"  he  concluded  profession- 
ally. 

"Just  about  there,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  greatly  agitated. 
"Miss  Westcott  would  no  doubt  describe  the  strange 
sound :  like  this — Moo — ooh — ooh ! ' ' 

They  all  peered  up  the  chimney  .  .  .  and  as  if  in  an- 
swer, came  a  ghostly  echo,  only  much  plainer:  "Mary 
Jane!"  .tr 

Pauline  and  Unwin  both  started,  and  Miss  Amelia  be- 
gan to  weep  again  in  dismal  resignation. 

"It  often  behaves  like  that  .  .  .  the  spirit  answering 
.  .  .  making  fun  of  us.  ...  Oh,  Mr.  Unwin,  it  does  seem 
hard  that  if  we  have  to  have  a  ghost  we  can't  have  one  like 
other  people.  I  sometimes  fear  for  my  reason." 

At  the  word  reason,  Unwin  thought  of  his  unfounded 
suspicion  concerning  Pauline,  and  again  peered  up  the 
chimney  with  a  slightly  heightened  colour. 

"The  sound  certainly  appears  to  come  from  up  there, 'r 
he  remarked. 

"Mary  Jane!    Damn  your  eye!    Mary  Jane!"  retorted 


38  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  ghostly  voice,  shooting  out  the  words  in  rapid  suc- 
cession. 

Unwin  straightened  himself  and  turned  round  abruptly 
to  Miss  Amelia.  "When  did  you  last  use  this  chimney?" 

"Three  years  ago  when  I  had  bronchitis,"  she  qua- 
vered, gazing  up  at  him  with  tragic  intensity. 

"Then  it's  that  beastly  jackdaw  from  the  Bowling  Green 
Inn,"  he  said. 

"Jackdaw!"  cried  Pauline. 
I     "Jackdaw!"  shrieked  Miss  Amelia. 

"They  forgot  to  cut  its  wings  and  it  has  been  lost  for 
some  time,"  said  Unwin.  "I  play  bowls  there,  and  I 
asked  what  had  happened  to  it." 

"I  knew  it  was  a  low  ghost,"  said  Miss  Amelia  faintly, 
sinking  down  on  the  nearest  chair.  "A  public-house. 
.  .  .  We  are,  indeed,  all  the  victims  of  our  surroundings." 
And  her  distress  having  been  very  great  and  the  reaction 
sudden  and  complete,  she  subsided  gently  upon  the  floor. 

In  a  moment  or  two,  however,  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
murmured  fervently — 

"Mr.  Unwin — Pauline — your  united  kindness  I  can 
never  forget." 

"It  is  nothing.  I  am  glad  to  have  found  the  old  vil- 
lain," replied  Unwin,  and  he  went  to  procure  a  man,  a 
ladder  and  other  requisites  for  removing  the  bird  from 
the  disused  chimney.  But  this  proved  to  be  no  easy  task, 
and  it  was  after  two  o'clock  when  he  finally  stood  before 
Miss  Amelia  and  Pauline,  very  grimy  indeed,  with  a  still 
grimier  bird  in  a  covered  basket. 

"Well,  here's  the  ghost  at  last,"  he  said.  "Its  wings 
are  clipped  now,  all  right,  but  I  thought  the  beggar  was 
going  to  escape  before  I  could  get  it  out  of  its  hiding 
place." 

"Oh,  how  I  shall  sleep  to-night!"  sighed  Miss  Amelia. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Unwin,  I  can  never,  never  thank  you  enough." 

"Nonsense!  Great  fun,  I  assure  you,"  said  Unwin 
cheerily.  "Rather  like  bird-nesting,  which  I  always  en- 


MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST  39 

joyed.  And  now  I'll  take  the  jackdaw  back  to  the  land- 
lady with  your  compliments  at  once,  if  you  don't  mind." 

' '  Landlady ! ' '  exclaimed  Miss  Amelia.  ' '  But,  of  course, 
you  are  jesting  again.  I  am  sure  you  quite  understand 
that  this  matter  must  be  kept  absolutely  between  our- 
selves. My  poor  sister.  ...  I  can  imagine  nothing  more 
painful  to  her  than  the  knowledge  that  she  had  become 
part-heroine  of  what  might  be  termed — er — a  funny 
story." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Unwin.  "You  may  rely  on  my  dis- 
cretion, and  I  am  convinced  that  Miss  Westcott  will  be 
equally  silent." 

Then  he  made  his  adieux  and  retired  with  a  grave  for- 
mality rather  marred,  but  not  destroyed,  by  a  streak  of 
black  over  one  eye. 

Pauline  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  and  as  he  was 
going  out  she  said,  hesitating — 

"You  know  .  .  .  you've  been  awfully  good.  But  she's 
a  dear,  isn't  she?" 

"Of  course  she  is.     I  love  her,"  said  Unwin. 

Pauline  laughed. 

"You  seem  to  love  lots  of  people." 

He  glanced  at  her  in  slight  surprise,  as  if  it  were  a 
true  fact  about  himself  which  he  had  not  noticed  before. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "people  are  jolly,  aren't  they?" 

Then  he  went  away,  and  Pauline  stood  looking  after 
him  as  he  went  jauntily  down  the  street  carrying  the 
jackdaw. 

A  fine  rain  was  now  falling,  and  he  blessed  this  common 
circumstance  'because  it  would  ensure  the  bowling  green 
being  sufficiently  deserted  for  the  private  repatriation 
of  the  jackdaw.  So  he  avoided  the  front  door  of  the 
inn,  slipped  round  to  the  back,  and  had  just  let  the  bird 
out  of  the  basket  when  a  red  face  appeared  over  the 
clipped  hedge  and  a  loud  female  voice  shouted  suddenly — 

"Hi!     What   are  you  doing  with  our  Mary  Jane?" 


40  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Then,  as  Unwin  straightened  himself  and  stared  at  her: 
"Mr.  Unwin!  It's  never  you,  Mr.  Unwin?" 

"Y-yes,"  acknowledged  Unwin  reluctantly.  "The — er 
— fact  is,  I  found  your  jackdaw  and  was  just  quietly  re- 
storing it  to  its  old  haunts."  Then  the  word  "haunt" 
seeming  so  particularly  appropriate  in  this  connection,  he 
smiled  at  her.  "Didn't  want  to  make  a  fuss,"  he  added. 

"Seems  not,"  said  the  landlady.  Then  she  added,  after 
a  pause,  "You  can't  help  feeling  it's  queer." 

"Such  a  lot  of  things  are,"  urged  Unwin.  "Supposing 
we  put  this  among  the  rest  and  say  no  more  about  it,  eh  ? " 

"Our  little  Bessie  cried  herself  sick  about  losing  the 
poor  bird,"  said  the  landlady.  "I  can't  get  over  that,  all 
in  a  minute,  nor  Bessie  neither." 

"Do  you  think  a  new  doll  ...  as  Mary  Jane  has  come 
back?"  suggested  Unwin,  tendering  five  shillings. 

"Oh!  well  ..."  said  the  landlady,  taking  the  money. 
"Only  I'd  rather  know  what  really  got  our  Mary  Jane, 
you  know." 

As  Unwin  was  unable,  however,  to  satisfy  this  natural 
feminine  instinct,  he  departed  with  all  convenient  speed 
and  walked  thoughtfully  back  to  his  office  wondering  why 
such  things  must  always  happen  to  him.  So  when  the 
Vicar  put  up  a  detaining  hand  and  said  importantly: 
"One  moment!  There  is  something  I  wish  to  say  to  you 
in  strictest  confidence,"  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  re- 
plied, on  the  spur  of  the  moment:  "Not  if  I  know  it! 
Confidences  are  too  much  of  a  strain.  Besides,  I'm  not  a 
millionaire." 

The  Vicar  smiled  vaguely. 

"Always  a  jest,  always  a  jest;  and  a  good  thing  too, 
in  its  way.  But  to  be  serious  for  a  moment,  my  dear  fel- 
low .  .  ." 

"I  am  serious,"  said  Unwin;  "I  never  was  more  seri- 
ous in  my  life.  I've  had  no  lunch  yet." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  Vicar.  "Well,  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  about  Lord  Southwater.  I  hear  from  a  private  source 


MISS  AMELIA'S  GHOST  41 

that  he  is  seeking  a  new  architect.  But  this  must  go  no 
further." 

Unwin  nodded,  and  thus  received  a  third  confidence, 
after  all. 

The  Vicar  hesitated. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  impertinent,  Unwin,  but 
I  rather  fear  your  business  is  not — not  quite  what  it  was  ? ' ' 

"You  might  put  it  plainer  than  that  without  being 
offensively  candid,"  said  Unwin,  with  a  laugh.  "There  is 
no  scope  for  an  architect  in  this  neighbourhood  now,  as 
you  know.  But  my  poor  father  was  broken-hearted  at 
the  thought  of  there  being  no  Unwin  to  follow  on  after 
three  generations,  so  I  couldn't  refuse  ..." 

"No,  no.  I  quite  see.  I  quite  see,"  said  the  Vicar. 
"You  did  what  was  right.  That,  in  the  end,  is  every- 
thing." 

"Is  it?"  said  Unwin.  "Well,  perhaps  it  is  ...  only 
.  .  .  "Well,  I've  got  to  get  my  lunch  now.  Good-bye." 

So  the  Vicar,  who  was  a  prig  but  a  very  kind  prig,  went 
on  to  his  Mother's  Meeting  composing  remarks  about 
Unwin  which  should  be  suited  to  the  all-powerful  ear  of 
Lord  Southwater. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE 

LORD  SOUTHWATER  was  a  rich  widower  with  a  long, 
bald,  pink  face,  a  fine  hand  and  a  hobby  for  restoring 
and  building  churches.  He  indulged  this  taste  to  the  full ; 
consciously  because  he  had  a  sincere  love  for  ecclesiastical 
architecture;  unconsciously,  because  he  wished  to  occupy 
the  same  prominent  position  elsewhere  as  he  had  always 
done  here. 

At  the  present  moment,  however,  he  slept  in  a  corner 
seat  of  a  first-class  railway  carriage  on  his  way  to  inspect 
the  restorations  which  had  been  recently  made  in  the  chan- 
cel of  Wendlebury  Parish  Church,  and  his  last  waking 
thought  had  been  of  Mrs.  Delamere  flashing  eyes  and  teeth 
at  him  in  welcome.  Not  that  he  had  any  great  affection 
for  his  sister-in-law,  but  because  her  presence  always 
gave  him  a  faint  sense  of  discomfort  which  he  hid  under 
a  marked  cordiality  lest  he  should  in  any  way  seem  to 
slight  the  memory  of  his  dead  brother,  though  he  was  a 
man  to  whom  even  the  mildest  duplicity  was  extremely 
distasteful. 

While  he  thus  slumbered,  preparations  for  his  due  re- 
ception were  being  made  in  the  little  red-roofed  town. 
Mrs.  Delamere  and  her  maids  threw  back  the  folding- 
doors  and  placed  rows  of  chairs  hired  from  the  inn  in  the 
long,  imposing  apartment  formed  by  drawing-room  and 
dining-room  combined:  the  Wendlebury  ladies  took  out 
their  best  dresses  from  cedar-scented  wardrobes,  while 
Mrs.  Chubb  before  her  cottage  hearth  was  brushing  with 
great  care  the  Sunday  hat  and  coat  of  Mr.  Chubb. 

"You  can  do  as  you  like,"  said  that  respectable  cab- 

42 


A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE  43 

driver,  eating  buttered  toast  and  drinking  tea  with  great 
truculence;  which  sounds  difficult,  tea  and  toast  being 
essentially  mild  viands,  but  Chubb  could  make  water-gruel 
the  element  of  a  jamboree.  "I  won't  wear  'em,"  he  con- 
cluded. "I  tell  you  that,  straight." 

"But  a  lord "  entreated  *Mrs.  Chubb.  "And  you 

do  look  so  handsome  when  you're  dressed,  Chubby." 

He  frowned,  hardening  still  more  outside,  but  melting 
slightly  within,  and  responded  surlily — 

"What's  the  use  of  figging  myself  out  for  Lord  South- 
water  who  never  gives  more'n  a  twopenny  tip,  eh?  I  like 
a  lord  to  ~be  a  lord,  and  splash  his  money  about  a  bit. 
That's  what  we  keep  'em  for,  isn't  it?" 

But  Mrs.  Chubb  was  not  to  be  switched  off  upon  politi- 
cal issues  and  giggled  persuasively — 

"Mrs.  White  next  door  said  only  the  other  day  that 
no  wonder  the  ladies  always  wanted  you  to  drive  'em  out. 
She  should  be  jealous  if  she  was  me,  she  says." 

"Chattering  old  fool,  she  is,"  grunted  Chubb:  but  at 
the  same  time  he  took  the  coat  without  seeming  to  be 
aware  of  it. 

"If  I  was  a  lord,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chubb,  patting  his 
collar  into  place,  "I  should  find  a  better  hobby  than 
doing  up  churches,  shouldn't  you?" 

"I  should  that,"  agreed  Mr.  Chubb  cordially.  "Why, 
when  you  think  his  father  won  the  Derby  and  his  grand- 
father owned  Perigord !  It  makes  you  believe  in  all  this  talk 
of  the  English  race  going  to  the  dogs,  it  does  indeed." 

"Aye,  and  this  Lord  Southwater  not  knowing  a  hunter 
from  an  old  lady's  carriage  horse,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb, 
"and  spending  hundreds,  so  they  say,  a-mending  up  the 
church  here." 

"Well,  Unwin  will  have  made  a  bit,"  said  Chubb.  "It 
was  luck  for  him,  Lord  Southwater 's  architect  being  taken 
ill."  He  paused.  "But  if  we  ever  get  enough  saved  up 
to  build  out  that  porch,  I  don't  know  as  I  shall  employ 
young  Unwin.  He'd  forget  something,  I  doubt." 


44  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Aye — too  flighty-like, "  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  opening  the 
cottage  door  for  her  husband.  And  as  Mr.  Chubb  passed 
the  bright  windows  of  the  other  cottages,  he  glanced  fur- 
tively at  his  own  reflection,  realising  that  his  wife  was 
not  without  some  slight  intelligence  of  the  inferior  fe- 
male sort,  for  he  did  indeed  look  a  fine  figure  of  a  man 
in  his  Sunday  overcoat  and  hat. 

Mrs.  Chubb  watched  him  turn  the  corner  and  was  about 
to  retire  into  the  house  when  Eva,  Mrs.  Dickson's  maid, 
appeared  from  the  other  direction,  and  after  explaining 
that  the  cab  was  required  for  that  same  evening,  she 
accepted  an  invitation  to  walk  in.  There  was  still  some 
good  tea  in  the  pot  and  the  two  women  sat  down  before 
the  bright  fire.  A  pleasant  aroma  of  tea,  hot  butter  and 
scorching  bread  filled  the  apartment,  the  very  incense 
most  acceptable  to  the  nose  of  the  goddess  of  scandal  in 
this  climate,  though,  being  universal,  she  adapts  her  rites 
to  the  varying  conditions  of  the  world,  and  no  doubt  has 
perfumes  equally  able  to  loose  the  tongue  elsewhere. 

"And  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb  ("Another  lump,  do!) 
And  so  you  want  the  cab  for  a  quarter  to  eight?  Mrs. 
Delamere's  party,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  Chubb  must  mind  and  not  let  anybody  run 
away  with  the  cab  this  time,"  replied  Eva,  laughing. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  make  a  joke  on  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Chubb,  gazing  solemn-eyed  over  the  edge  of  her  cup.  "I 
know  something  about  that,  as  would  surprise  you.  But 
I'm  no  gossip  and  never  was." 

"No,  nor  me  either,"  said  Eva  cordially.  "Still,  be- 
tween two  old  friends  like  us  .  .  ." 

"It's  different,  of  course,"  agreed  Mrs.  Chubb.  "Now 
there's  that  Mrs.  White,  I  wouldn't  tell  her  anything  I 
didn't  want  to  go  no  further;  no,  not  for  a  king's  ransom." 

"You're  right  there,"  said  Eva.  "But  us  Martins  was 
always  brought  up  to  keep  things  to  ourselves.  I  shall 
ever  remember  the  day  when  our  Emm  came  running 
home  with  a  tale  about  a  woman  we  knew  stealing  a 


45 

neighbour's  coal.  Mother  gave  our  Emm  such  a  clout 
on  the  head  for  gossiping  before  she  went  round  to  teil 
the  neighbours  about  it.  That's  how  I  first  learnt  to  be 
so  careful.  We've  a  lot  to  thank  our  mother  for."  She 
sighed,  then  dismissing  the  matter,  continued  in  another 
tone:  "You  were  going  to  say  something  about  that  cab 
affair  when  I  interrupted,  weren't  you?" 

"Not  about  the  cab,"  replied  Mrs.  Chubb. 

"About  Chubb  then?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"Unwin?"  suggested  Eva. 

Mrs.  Chubb  nodded  three  times. 

' '  What 's  he  been  doing  now  ? ' '  asked  Eva,  with  the  intense 
relish  of  those  whose  own  lives  afford  no  scope  for  drama. 
* '  He 's  never  been  and  run  away  with  the  cab  again  ? ' ' 

"No."  Mrs.  Chubb  leaned  forward  and  continued  in 
a  low,  mysterious  voice:  "You  know  the  Dragon  at  Rye- 
ford?  Well,  there's  somebody  very  ill  there.  Chubb 's 

driven  Doctor  Carter  over  three  times.  Each  time " 

Mrs.  Chubb  paused. 

"Well?" 

"Each  time  Chubb  saw  Unwin  hanging  about  the 
Dragon." 

"Ah!"  said   Eva. 

"He  goes  there  to  get  his  drink  on  the  quiet,"  said 
Mrs.  Chubb.  "But  I  heard  tell  of  him  down  at  the  Bowl- 
ing Green  Inn  in  Windlebury,  too." 

"Well,"  said  Eva,  reluctantly  beginning  to  tear  herself 
away  by  putting  down  her  tea-cup.  "As  I  always  say, 
men's  men.  You  can't  make  otherways  of  'em.  Particu- 
larly bachelors.  A  man  and  a  mug  o'  beer — a  boy  and 
a  apple-tree — there  you  are:  you  can't  go  against  nature." 

As  Eva  was  reporting  to  her  mistress  the  result  of  her 
errand,  Unwin  cycled  past  the  window.  Pauline,  who 
stood  near  it,  was  giving  scraps  of  information  to  the 
invalid  by  the  fire. 


46  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"There's  Unwin  cycling  past,"  she  remarked,  seizing 
hold  of  the  topic  with  a  degree  of  alertness  that  only 
those  can  understand  who  have  been  much  with  beloved, 
and  old,  and  house-bound  people.  "I'm  sure  he  ought  to 
be  at  the  church  explaining  the  alterations  to  Lord  South- 
water  by  this  time.  I  saw  the  Vicar  going  in  when  I  passed 
half  an  hour  ago." 

"Lord  South  water  is  a  very  punctual  man,"  remarked 
Aunt  Dickson.  "He  won't  like  it  if  Unwin  is  late.  "What- 
ever can  have  made  the  foolish  fellow  cycle  off  to  Ryeford 
at  the  last  moment  in  this  way?" 

"Yes,  and  in  the  rain  too,"  added  Pauline. 

Eva  placed  some  change  on  the  table  and  said  nothing 
in  words,  but  her  facial  expression  was  such  that  both 
Aunt  Dickson  and  Pauline  exclaimed  together:  "Eva, 
what  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"Nothing,  oh,  nothing,"  said  Eva.  "I'm  no  gossip, 
though  you  did  say  ..."  She  broke  off  and  retired, 
adding  formally:  "So  it's  scrambled  eggs  for  supper." 

But  her  very  nose-end  radiated  suppressed  information. 

Dignity,  however,  forbade  Aunt  Dickson  to  call  her 
back,  and  to  her  great  disappointment  she  was  allowed  to 
close  the  door.  Slowly  she  paced  the  passage  to  the 
kitchen  where  she  stood  considering  for  some  time  by  the 
fire;  at  last  her  long  features  became  illuminated;  she 
hastened  back  to  the  room,  put  her  head  in  at  the  door, 
and  said  in  an  apologetic  tone:  "Me  memory's  going. 
Did  you  say  scrambled  eggs  for  supper?" 

"Yes."  Aunt  Dickson  glanced  up  expectantly,  while 
Eva  came  in,  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice :  "I  can 't  tell  you  a  lie !  I  never  have.  I  won 't 
begin  now,  Unwin  or  no  Unwin.  I  did  hear  something 
when  I  was  at  Mrs.  Chubb 's." 

For  a  moment  Aunt  Dickson  fought  with  her  worse 
feelings  and  then  gave  in.  She  had  found  the  day  so  long 
with  the  enforced  inaction  and  constant,  slight  pain;  and 


A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE  47 

the  thought  of  something  new  to  think  about  seemed  like 
an  anodyne. 

''Well?"  she  said. 

"Well,"  said  Eva,  enjoying  the  importance  very  much, 
"Mr.  Un win's  been  at  the  Dragon  at  Ryeford,  I  bet  a 
button.  He's  always  there." 

"Who  says  so?"  demanded  Pauline. 

"Chubb,"  said  Eva. 

"Oh,  Chubb!"  said  Pauline. 

Aunt  Dickson  thought  for  a  moment. 

"I  really  can't  believe  it  of  young  Unwin,"  she  said 
at  last.  "He  is  such  a  nice  man." 

"Aye,"  responded  Eva  darkly.  "But  the  devil  endows 
his  own.  We  all  know  that.  You  never  did  meet  a  good- 
for-nought  that  wasn't  nicer  than  he  ought  to  be." 

' '  I  don 't  believe  a  word  of  it, ' '  declared  Pauline. 

But  Eva  was  not  offended  because  she  instinctively 
knew 'Aunt  Dickson  and  Pauline  were  only  preserving  the 
conventions,  and  that  she  had  been  as  interesting  as  she 
could  possibly  have  desired. 

One  part  of  the  story  did  indeed  bear  evidence  of 
truth,  for  Unwin  arrived  at  the  church  with  a  damp 
jacket  and  the  unmistakable  mud  of  the  Ryeford  Road 
on  his  boots,  and  a  general  appearance  .of  being  sartorially 
unprepared  for  the  august  little  group  which  awaited  him. 

Lord  Southwater  had  been  standing  for  some  time  on 
the  lower  step  of  the  chancel,  eyeglass  in  hand,  while 
Mrs.  Delamere  murmured  in  a  religious  undertone:  "I 
don't  actually  visit  with  the  Wendlebury  people,  of 
course,  but  one's  duty  to  one's  neighbour  .  .  .  one  has 
to  consider  that  sometimes  ...  so  I  thought  it  would 
be  so  delightful  if  you  would  give  a  short  address  on  the 
architecture  of  Wendlebury  Church  this  evening  in  my 
drawing-room.  We  know  so  little,  really,  of  our  church,  and 
it  enables  me  to  invite  those  whom  .  .  .  you  understand  ? '  * 

Then  Unwin   came   hurriedly  up   the   aisle   and   Lord 


48  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Southwater  advanced  with  that  air  of  being  the  principal 
layman  at  a  clerical  conference  which  never  seemed  to 
leave  him,  and  which  the  imagination  pictured  present 
even  in  his  bath,  where  he  no  doubt  gave  to  the  soap 
and  sponge  the  same  impression  of  secular  saintship. 

Unwin  made  such  apologies  as  he  could  muster,  but 
the  great  man  was  at  first  very  stiff  and  unapproachable, 
as  was  only  natural  in  a  benefactor  who  has  been  kept 
waiting,  while  the  culprit  himself  was  obviously  worried 
and  preoccupied,  though  he  tried  hard  to  bring  his  mind 
to  bear  upon  the  matter  in  hand.  After  a  while,  however, 
the  genuine  love  of  both  men  for  the  village  churches  of 
England — those  homes  of  the  religion  and  poetry  and 
history  of  the  race — began  to  draw  them  together.  For 
beneath  Lord  Southwater 's  dull  crust  of  self-importance 
and  Unwin 's  young  affectation  of  indifference  was  a  spring- 
ing enthusiasm  which  made  their  talk  eager  and  vital. 
Each  understood  and  saw  in  the  other  more  than  their 
words  said,  and  to  the  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Delamere  was  left 
that  rather  forlorn  position  of  watching  the  minds  of  two 
men,  utterly  unlike  each  other,  thus  touching  and  fusing 
into  a  very  harmonious  understanding. 

But  once  the  inspection  was  over  and  the  four  stood 
grouped  by  the  door  speaking  of  the  weather  in  the 
hushed  tones  desirable  in  a  sacred  edifice,  all  Unwin 's 
former  preoccupation  and  constraint  returned.  He  could 
not  feel  at  ease  when  he  saw  always,  on  the  rich  gloom 
of  the  church  behind  Lord  South  water's  pink,  important 
face,  the  face  of  the  dying  man  at  the  Green  Dragon. 
It  seemed  so  strange  and  terrible  that  these  two  had  been 
little  brothers,  playing  at  horses  together.  .  .  .  The  intol- 
erable strangeness  of  human  life  gripped  hold  of  Unwin. 
How  could  this  man  stand  there,  calm  and  important,  un- 
aware that  his  brother  was  dying  amongst  strangers  only 
two  miles  away? 

"Then,  Mr.  Unwin,"  and  he  started  to  hear  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere's  graciously  condescending  voice  through  the  gloom 


A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE  49 

and  wonder,  "we  shall  hope  to  see  you  this  evening  at 
eight  o'clock?" 

Unwin  hesitated,  but  the  Vicar's  frown  and  his  own 
knowledge  of  the  unwisdom  of  offending  Lord  South- 
water  made  him  answer  almost  at  once — 

"Thank  you,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come,  but  I  am 
obliged  to  leave  immediately  after  the  lecture." 

"That  is,  of  course,  as  you  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere, 
then  to  her  guest,  she  added  with  dignity :  "I  think  our 
carriage  is  waiting."  And  so  the  party  emerged  into  the 
soft  falling  rain. 

Chubb 's  mare  stood  patiently  demure  between  the 
shafts,  but  at  Unwin 's  affectionate  "Hullo,  Griselda!"  she 
did  flick  a  tail,  as  the  demurest  matron  may  on  finding 
that  she  still  has  charms  for  a  nice  young  man.  And 
indeed  Unwin  did  rejoice  to  see  her,  because  she  roused 
in  him  just  for  a  moment  the  sense  of  fun  which  he  hated 
to  live  without;  he  so  actively  detested  being  obliged  to 
feel  miserable. 

"Wet  day,  Chubb,"  smiled  Mrs.  Delamere,  claiming 
him  as  an  old  and  grateful  retainer:  but  Chubb  main- 
tained an  unresponsive  gravity,  refusing  to  be  so  claimed 
by  any  one  living  for  a  less  tip  than  threepence  a  journey. 

As  Unwin  made  his  way  down  the  street  he  was  hailed 
from  the  curb  by  Miss  Argle  who  was  the  one  social  equal 
of  Mrs.  Delamere,  being  an  Argle  of  Argle  Hall. 

"Sorry  to  trouble  you,"  she  said  excitedly.  "Gentle-, 
men  so  scarce  in  Wendlebury  .  .  .  away  for  some  weeks 
.  .  .  rather  a  delicate  matter  ..." 

"Then  I  think  you'd  better  find  some  one  else,"  said 
Unwin,  with  decision.  "  I  'm  no  good  at  anything  delicate. ' ' 
And  he  prepared  to  cycle  on. 

"Oh,  please!  Please!"  cried  Miss  Argle.  "It's  my 
nephew.  Seventeen.  He  is  staying  with  me  and  has  a 
new  dress  suit  and  Mrs.  Delamere  says  evening  dress 
optional.  I  do  think  it  is  a  most  trying  thing  for  people 


50  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

to  say  that,  Mr.  Unwin.  There  are  problems  enough  in 
the  world,  I  should  suppose,  without  people  adding  to 
them  by  saying  evening  dress  optional.  If  my  nephew 
dresses  and  others  don't,  it  looks  a  little  ostentatious, 
doesn't  it?  And  if  he  refrains  and  others  do,  he  will  be 
exceedingly  angry  with  me  and  glower  in  a  corner  and  re- 
fuse to  hand  round  the  coffee  and  sandwiches.  So  I 
thought  I  would  ask  you  what  you  were  going  to  do." 

"  Oh !  1 11  put  on  swallow-tails  and  then  he  '11  feel  all  right, 
anyway.  When  in  doubt,  dress,  I  suppose,"  said  Unwin. 

''Oh!  Quite  an  epigram,  I  declare,"  said  Miss  Argle. 
"Always  so  good-natured  ...  see  you  this  evening  .  .  ."• 
and  she  murmured  herself  away  at  last,  leaving  Unwin 
free  to  mount  his  bicycle. 

When  Mrs.  Delamere  said  vaguely  to  her  brother-in- 
law  that  his  lecture  gave  her  a  chance  to  invite  those 
whom  .  .  .  and  left  it,  she  was  once  more  endeavouring 
to  convey  her  most  rigid  principle,  namely,  that  she 
did  not  visit  with  the  Wendlebury  people  but  only  with 
the  county,  though  she  saw  Miss  Harriet  and  Miss  Amelia 
Pritchard  at  least  fifty  times  more  often  than,  for  in- 
stance, the  Bracegirdles  of  Bracegirdle.  But  it  is  a  fool- 
ish thing  to  think  that  voluntary  climbers  up  are  the 
only  snobs,  because  involuntary  climbers  down  are  often 
just  the  same,  and  perhaps  even  more  insistent. 

So  Lord  South  water's  sister-in-law  was  very  glad  to 
show  him  to  her  little  world  in  what  might  be  termed 
a  non-committal  manner,  and  by  eight  o'clock  her  apart- 
ments gave  one,  as  Miss  Amelia  remarked  to  Pauline, 
quite  a  brilliant  example  of  what  aristocratic  At  Homes 
in  London  must  be  like.  And  the  jewel  or  apex  of  all  this 
subdued  splendour  was  the  peer  by  the  mantelpiece,  who 
wore,  not  exactly  a  dress  suit,  but  the  sanctified  and  hy- 
brid garb  used  by  him  for  giving  addresses  at  Young 
Men's  Associations,  consisting  of  a  frock  coat,  a  black 
tie,  and  a  good  deal  of  white  shirt  front. 


A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE  51 

As  soon  as  the  company  was  seated,  the  address  began, 
and  Lord  South-water's  excellent  flat  voice  boomed  gra- 
ciously across  the  fluttering  rows  of  Wendlebury  ladies  in 
their  light  silks  and  laces  and  grenadines,  with  an  odd 
man  making  a  dark  patch  here  and  there.  Miss  Amelia 
sat  next  to  the  Vicar,  and  had  seldom  felt  so  much  in 
spirits,  with  Pauline  on  her  other  side,  and  Unwin — most 
pleasant — in  the  row  behind. 

But  when  she  turned  round  to  catch  Unwin 's  eye,  while 
Lord  Southwater  paused  for  breath  and  water  and  there 
was  a  delicate  clatter  of  applause,  she  felt  disturbed  to 
see  his  look  of  stern  gravity,  for  it  had  not  occurred  to  her 
that  his  blunt,  debonair  features  could  wear  such  a  look. 
Then  Lord  Southwater  gave  a  preparatory  cough  and 
the  impression  faded  from  the  surface  of  her  mind. 

Unwin,  however,  still  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
speaker,  and  his  look  remained  the  same.  For  behind 
Lord  Southwater  he  again  saw  Delamere's  worn  cheeks 
and  burnt-out  eyes.  And  no  pictured  comparison  of  Ho- 
garth could  have  been  so  startlingly  real  to  Unwin 's  mod- 
ern view  as  that  large,  pink,  assured  face  with  the  other 
one  looming  behind  it. 

Yet  Delamere  had  been  the  best  loved  son  of  his 
mother.  His  first  wreckage  had  come  through  a  sort  of 
love.  Unwin  loved  him  now,  though  he  was  irritable, 
wretched,  dying.  And  no  one  had  ever  greatly  loved 
Lord  Southwater. 

Unwin  thought  this,  sitting  there  among  the  gaily  clad 
Wendlebury  ladies;  but  he  could  find  no  answer  to  the 
immortal  problem.  And,  gradually,  for  he  had  been  al- 
ready watching  three  consecutive  nights  at  the  Dragon, 
the  sonorous  periods  of  the  speaker  began  to  make  him 
drowsy.  He  ceased  to  think  and  puzzle  and  let  his  glance 
rest  idly  upon  Pauline's  ear  as  it  emerged  from  the 
shadow  of  her  dark  hair.  She  had  pretty  ears,  he  thought, 
and  a  pretty  neck.  How  exquisitely  she  was  shaped  alto- 
gether. ...  A  man  scarcely  noticed  how  delicately  lovely 


52  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

she  was  until  he  sat  near  her  quietly  and  watched  her 
.  .  .  her  quick,  bright  eyes  seemed  to  ward  off  a  man's 
glances  when  she  was  talking.  .  .  .  By  now  he  was  almost 
asleep  from  sheer  fatigue,  while,  half-real  and  half-un- 
real, Pauline's  slender  neck  over  the  chair-back,  with  a 
little  curling  lock  upon  it,  bloomed  vaguely  before  him 
like  the  thick  petal  of  a  white  camelia.  He  thought,  quite 
aimlessly,  that  it  must  be  cool  and  soft  to  the  touch  like 
the  petal  of  such  a  flower.  Then  he  awoke  with  a  start 
to  the  realisation  of  his  surroundings  and  knew  that 
Lord  Southwater  had  ceased  speaking. 

With  that  full  awakening  came  other  thoughts,  much 
more  urgent,  and  in  the  confusion  caused  by  all  the  ladies 
congratulating  Lord  Southwater  he  managed  to  slip  away. 

But  Mrs.  Delamere  did  not  seek  to  detain  any  of  her 
departing  guests,  remarking  casually,  indeed,  that  Lord 
Southwater  liked  to  retire  early,  which,  as  Miss  Amelia 
said,  would  in  some  people  have  seemed  almost  like  a 
hint  to  go.  It  being  impossible,  however,  that  a  hostess 
of  Mrs.  Delamere 's  breeding  could  be  inhospitable,  the 
ladies  took  the  statement  at  its  face  value  and  twittered 
out  into  the  front  hall,  where  they  waited  in  a  strong 
draught  for  a  long  time  while  the  four  Wendlebury  cabs 
lumbered  back  and  forth  as  speedily  as  convenient. 

Pauline,  being  young,  had  to  wait  until  the  very  end, 
and  nothing  but  the  strongest  sense  of  gratitude  to  Aunt 
Dickson  could  have  made  her  obey  the  last  injunction: 
"on  no  account  to  walk  home  through  the  wet."  But 
at  last  she,  also,  was  safely  in  her  little,  straight-fronted 
house,  where  a  light  gleaming  beneath  Aunt  Dickson 's 
downstair  bedroom  door  showed  that  interested  spectator 
of  life  to  be  still  awake  and  eagerly  awaiting  news. 

A  moment  or  two  the  girl  hesitated  with  her  hand  on 
the  knob  of  the  door,  because  her  head  ached  badly  and 
she  longed  for  bed  and  darkness  and  quiet,  then  she  turned 
the  handle  and  went  in. 


A  VISITOR  OF  IMPORTANCE  53 

"Awake  still?"  she  said  cheerfully. 

Aunt  Dickson  nodded  and  looked  out  expectantly  over 
her  gay  patchwork  quilt. 

"Well,  who  was  there?    Did  any  one  ask  after  me?" 

But  her  face  was  unusually  sad  and  dull  because  she 
had  been  feeling  during  the  evening  the  irksomeness  of 
being  chained  down  by  her  old  body  while  her  spirit  was 
still  so  ardent  and  full  of  youth. 

"The  Vicar  said  he  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  there," 
said  Pauline.  "We  had  sandwiches  called  chicken,  but 
Miss  Amelia  saw  Mrs.  Delamere  buying  a  couple  of  rab- 
bits yesterday  and  she  said  it  might  be  a  co-incidence,  of 
course  .  .  .  such  strange  co-incidences  did  happen." 

Pauline's  voice  and  manner  were  so  like  Miss  Amelia's 
that  Aunt  Dickson  said  reprovingly:  "Come,  come,  Paul- 
ine, you  know  that  is  a  dangerous  gift."  But  she  already 
began  to  glance  out  jolly  and  alert  above  her  patchwork 
quilt  instead  of  staring  across  it  in  dull  acquiescence. 

So  Pauline  drew  a  chair  near  the  bedside  and  sat  down 
to  give  a  full  account  of  the  evening's  entertainment, 
leaving  out  no  frill  or  furbelow,  and  lending  to  the  whole 
a  glow  and  verve  which  it  had  certainly  never  possessed. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  sort  of  enchanted  party  that  Pauline 
had  brought  home,  and  Aunt  Dickson  nodded  and  chuck- 
led and  exclaimed,  as  if  the  familiar  figures  were  playing 
their  different  parts  around  her  bed. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "it  must  have  been  delightful 
to  see  when  it  is  so  pleasant  even  to  hear  about.  But  you 
never  mentioned  Unwin.  Was  he  not  there?" 

"Oh,  yes,  "said  Pauline  casually.  "He  slipped  away 
before  any  one  else." 

"Why  was  he  in  such  a  hurry,  I  wonder?"  said  Aunt 
Dickson. 

"Oh,  something  better  to  do,  I  suppose,"  said  Pauline. 

But  she  also  rather  wondered  why  Unwin  had  left  be- 
fore any  one  else. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CRANBIE'S  SALE 

AUNT  DICKSON  having  been  to  a  party,  though  only 
by  proxy,  awoke  next  morning  filled  with  vim  and 
go.     She  even  felt  a  sort  of  bustling  satisfaction  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  stress  of  living  was  to  be  further  in- 
creased by  the  advent  of  Mrs.  Chubb. 

Whiz!  went  her  bell  through  the  house  before  Pauline 
was  up,  and  when  Eva  appeared — at  her  leisure — Aunt 
Dickson  said  alertly — 

"Ask  Miss  Pauline  to  come  here  immediately  she  has 
breakfasted.  And  tell  Mrs.  Chubb  to  use  the  new  carpet- 
sweeper  to-day,  it  will  save  her  a  lot  of  hard  work. ' ' 

"She  won't,"  said  Eva.  "She's  like  deaf  Sammy  Bur- 
ton in  our  village.  When  parson  gave  him  a  new  coat,  he 
would  wear  the  sleeves  turned  up  because  he'd  had  to 
wear  his  old  one  so.  Us  Martins  never  was  like  that. 
My  grandmother  learnt  a  fresh  way  of  making  cheesecakes 
when  she  was  seventy." 

"You  must  explain  to  Mrs.  Chubb,"  insisted  Aunt 
Dickson. 

Eva  shook  her  head. 

"Mrs.  Chubb 's  one  of  those  that  won't  be  telled.  You 
can't  do  nothing  with  a  person  that  won't  be  telled; 
there's  no  hope  for  them." 

Then  she  retired  and  Pauline  soon  entered  to  find  Aunt 
Dickson  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  blue  pencil  in  her  hand 
and  catalogues  spread  on  the  patchwork  quilt  reading 
"Tea-cloths  Absurdly  Marked  Down,"  and  "Towels  Posi- 
tively Given  Away, ' '  a  supreme  effort  of  Wendlebury  com- 
merce. 

54 


CRANBIE'S  SALE  55 

The  Sale  was  to  take  place  at  Cranbie's  shop  in  the 
High  Street,  owing  to  the  death  of  the  senior  partner, 
and  though  certain  French  names  convey  something  to 
London  ladies  speaking  of  apparel,  they  cannot  furnish 
the  solid  unassailable  impression  of  good  stuff  and  solid 
money's  worth  which  is  ours  when  we  say,  rather  care- 
lessly: "Oh,  yes;  I  got  it  at  Cranbie's!" 

Some  of  the  younger  people  now  purchase  ready-made 
garments  by  post  from  a  distance,  and  it  has  to  be  owned 
that  they  have  quite  an  air  outwardly.  But  Miss  Harriet 
voiced  the  sentiments  of  many  when  she  murmured: 
"One  always  wonders  a  little  how  the  seams  are  over- 
cast. A  raw  seam  would  give  me  an  impression  of  sar- 
torial insecurity  which  no  lady  should  countenance." 

We  customers  of  Cranbie's,  however,  were  seamed  and 
boned  and  felled  and  overcast  until  we  could  have  stood 
anything  short  of  a  charge  of  dynamite  under  our  petti- 
coats with  a  certainty  of  absolute  propriety. 

But  a  sale,  even  at  Cranbie's,  was  an  event  which  the 
most  select  circle  in  Wendlebury  preferred  to  ignore,  the 
assumption  being  that  sales  were  low  affairs,  at  which  it 
was  in  some  vague  way  derogatory  to  be  seen. 

Thus  when  Pauline  went  out  early  to  catch  the  first 
bargains  for  Aunt  Dickson,  and  met  Mrs.  Delamere  in 
Cranbie's  doorway  as  the  door  opened,  that  lady  frowned, 
flushed,  and  said  with  a  jaunty  air — 

"What  an  early  bird!  My  cook  has  sent  me  out  for 
some  preserving  sugar:  my  brother-in-law  Lord  South- 
water  sent  me  a  splendid  hamper  of  strawberries  last 
evening,"  and  so  passed  on. 

But  when  Pauline  had  wrestled  with  the  towels  and 
turned  sharply  round  a  grove  of  quilts  to  the  "Teacloths 
Absurdly  Marked  Down,"  she  came  face  to  face  with 
Miss  Harriet  and  Miss  Amelia. 

There  they  were.  Blankly,  unmistakably  they  were 
there;  and  it  was  a  second  or  two  before  Miss  Harriet 
said  carelessly:  "I  am  looking  for  the  stocking  counter. 


56  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Everything  upside  down  with  this  dreadful  sale.  I  think 
I  must  wait  until  next  week  when  things  will  be  more 
in  order." 

With  that  she  moved  towards  the  door  of  the  shop, 
followed  by  poor  Miss  Amelia  in  so  crestfallen  a  fashion 
that  Pauline  said  hastily — 

"Oh,  do  look  round,  now  you  are  here.  I — I — I  really 

think "  She  lowered  her  voice :  "Miss  Harriet,  would 

it  not  be  a  mark  of  respect  to  poor  Mr.  Cranbie  if  you 
bought  something  at  the  sale?" 

Miss  Harriet  and  Miss  Amelia  glanced  at  each  other, 
pausing  on  their  outward  way. 

"It  is,  of  course,  occasioned  by  his  death,"  allowed 
Miss  Harriet;  "I  had  a  great  respect  for  Mr.  Cranbie." 

"Served  us  well — many  years — a  sort  of  last  tribute," 
fluttered  Miss  Amelia,  beginning  to  hope  again. 

And  after  a  few  more  such  remarks  the  ladies  returned 
to  the  centre  of  the  shop,  where  they  were  soon  eagerly 
discussing  odd  lengths  of  delicate  ribbons  such  as  ap- 
peared in  the  age  of  crinolines,  and  had  remained  since 
that  easy,  flowery  time  in  the  dark  drawers  and  corners 
of  the  old  place. 

A  little  later  Pauline  saw  them  pricing  some  petticoats 
which  hung  in  a  long  row  above  a  centre  counter,  and 
as  Miss  Harriet  pulled  a  lavender  one  aside,  her  nose 
almost  came  into  contact  with  the  nose  of  Mrs.  Delamere. 
Both  ladies,  though  they  were  ladies  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  word,  had  for  one  moment  the  appearance  of  two 
denizens  of  the  jungle  suddenly  encountered  through  an 
undergrowth  where  each  had  thought  herself  alone. 

Then  Mrs.  Delamere  recovered,  flashed  eyes  and  teeth 
in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  welcome,  and  remarked — 

"I  am  looking  for  the  stocking  counter.  So  confusing, 
this  sale.  I  think  I  shall  leave  my  stockings  for  a  few 
days." 

"Oddly  enough,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  "that  was  also  our 
errand." 


CRANBIE'S  SALE  57 

"Stockings  this  way,  madam,"  said  the  attentive  shop- 
walker behind. 

So  there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
purchase  the  stockings  which  neither  needed,  after  which 
it  seemed  as  if  a  general  exodus  must  ensue;  but  as  Miss 
Harriet  passed  the  "Splendid  Materials  Marked  Down  to 
One  Shilling  per  Yard,"  she  hesitated,  then  bent  close  to 
Mrs.  Delamere  and  whispered  solemnly:  "Poor  Mr. 
Cranbie!  I  really  feel,  after  so  many  years  of  faithful 
service — just  one  or  two  lengths — don't  you?" 

"Well,"  admitted  Mrs.  Delamere,  "perhaps  we  ought. 
I  did  not  see  it  in  that  light  before.  I  dare  say,  poor 
man,  he  would  be  gratified  if  he  could  only  know." 

"Perhaps  he  does  know,"  said  Miss  Amelia  in  a  low 
voice,  with  an  eye  on  the  brown  alpaca. 

And  in  this  spirit  they  felt  able  to  turn  over  the  bales 
and  remnants  for  so  long  a  time  that  the  salesman's 
smooth  hair  grew  rough  and  his  spruce  collar  crumpled, 
as  he  assisted  them  to  choose  between  French  merino 
and  cashmere. 

Pauline  had  completed  her  own  purchases  long  before 
they  emerged,  and  she  was  glad  to  escape  alone,  for  her 
head  began  to  ache  again  badly  from  the  close  air  of  the 
shop.  It  was  pretty  certain  that  the  ladies  would  need 
tea  and  refreshment  and  would  call  upon  Aunt  Dickson 
to  recount  their  bargains  now  these  could  be  placed  in 
an  almost  memorial  light,  so  she  went  past  the  house 
and  into  the  open  country. 

The  day  was1  pleasant  with  the  hedgerows  bursting 
into  leaf,  and  as  she  took  her  accustomed  way  along  the 
Ryeford  Road  her  thoughts  cleared  and  lightened,  every- 
one knows  how,  who  loves  walking  in  the  country.  She 
lost  the  sensation  of  a  mind  clogged  by  cotton-wool  which 
had  made  her  unable  to  face  the  daily  round  of  callers 
and  luncheon  followed  by  translating  part  of  a  Russian 
novel — the  Russian  language  being  one  of  the  difficulties 


58  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

she  had  desperately  overthrown  during  that  fierce  fight 
for  efficiency  in  London. 

As  she  passed  the  scarecrow  it  seemed  to  stand  with  a 
degenerate,  music-hall  rakishness  amid  the  springing 
corn,  hat  cocked  and  dismal  trousers  fluttering,  the  same 
pitiful  travesty  of  fun.  But  it  recalled  to  her  memory 
the  old  times  when  she  had  taken  holiday  after  a  week's 
hard  work.  She  had  wanted  to  laugh — they  had  all  seized 
so  eagerly  on  anything  that  advertised  laughter.  It  was 
the  same  with  sick  people  and  patent  medicines  .  .  .  the 
desperate  pathos  of  life  .  .  . 

Her  wandering  thoughts  stopped  suddenly,  with  a 
jerk.  At  first  she  almost  thought  the  man's  figure  stag- 
gering out  of  the  Dragon  must  be  a  figment  of  the  brain, 
a  materialised  memory  of  those  same  holiday  evenings. 
Then  she  saw  it  was  Unwin,  still  wearing  his  evening 
clothes  from  the  night  before.  He  looked  ghastly  in  the 
morning  sunshine  with  rough  hair  and  shirt-front  rumpled, 
and  leaned  back  against  the  door-post  of  the  inn. 

Pauline  turned  sharp  round  and  ran  back  for  a  long 
way  down  the  road,  feeling  strangely  outraged,  though 
she  had  seen  such  a  sight  in  London  often  enough  and 
had  only  been  casually  disgusted.  Men  were  so,  she  had 
supposed,  taking  the  ugly  philosophy  of  the  streets.  But 
here  it  seemed  different,  here  it  seemed  horrible. 

Even  when  she  was  home  again  and  sitting  quietly  be- 
fore her  own  writing-table,  she  still  felt  something  within 
her  tremble  at  the  shock,  and  work  seemed  impossible. 
But  she  had  the  habit  of  concentration  and  sat  on,  doing 
badly  and  tearing  up,  until  she  could  translate  the  por- 
tion she  had  intended  to  do. 

Aunt  Dickson  sat  by  the  fire  playing  patience  before 
going  to  bed,  and  Pauline  looked  across  at  the  big,  kindly 
face  which  wore  now  an  expression  of  dull  endurance, 
purely  physical.  As  soon  as  the  girl  spoke,  however,  the 


CRANBIE'S  SALE  59 

old  woman's  brave  spirit  flashed  out  through  the  tired 
body  and  it  was  jolly  Aunt  Dickson  again. 

"Won't  you  put  away  the  cards  and  talk  for  a  while?" 
said  Pauline. 

' '  I  thought  you  seemed  tired.  You  have  scarcely  spoken 
a  word  since  tea.  You  like  to  read  in  an  evening  some- 
times, of  course." 

''I'm  not  a  bit  tired.     Well "  and  Pauline  began 

to  tell  about  Cranbie's  sale  and  the  day's  doings.  In  a 
few  minutes  Aunt  Dickson  had  forgotten  she  was  old  and 
ill  and  not  far  from  the  end  of  life,  and  was  laughing 
heartily. 

:  "Ha-ha!  So  it  was  you  who  suggested  buying  things 
out  of  respect  to  Mr.  Cranbie.  But  it  showed  a  nice  feel- 
ing on  their  part,"  she  added,  ever  charitable.  "And 
where  did  you  go  after  that?" 

"For  a  walk  on  the  Ryeford  Road.     Aunt  Dickson — " 

"Well?" 

"I  saw  Mr.  Unwin  come  staggering  out  of  the  Dragon 
in  the  dress  clothes  he  was  wearing  last  night.  He  looked 
dreadful.  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind." 

' '  Oh ! ' '  Aunt  Dickson 's  face  puckered  into  concern 
until  her  little  bright  eyes  were  almost  hidden.  "Oh,  I 
am  so  sorry.  If  only  one  could  do  anything.  Poor  boy ! ' ' 

"It's  disgraceful!  He  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  said 
Pauline.  "He  has  no  excuse." 

"Perhaps  it  is  this  quiet  place.  We  must  ask  him  here 
more,  Pauline,  though  it  is  rather  troublesome  having 
gentlemen  to  dinner  with  only  Eva.  But  I  dare  say  he 
has  not  enough  society  and  gets  drawn  to  public  houses 
like  the  young  men  one  reads  about.  I  fear  we  Wendle- 
bury  people  are  to  blame." 

"Aunt  Dickson!"  exclaimed  Pauline,  jumping  up,  "I 
do  believe  if  you  met  the  devil  you'd  say  'Poor  fellow,  I 
expect  he  mixed  with  goats  in  his  early  youth,  and  horns 
are  so  infectious!'  " 


60  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"No,  no — but  poor  young  Unwin "  murmured  Aunt 

Dickson  apologetically,  and  the  ladies  retired  to  bed. 

A  tea-party  was  taking  place  at  Aunt  Dickson 's  and 
Miss  Argle  sat  alone  by  the  tea-table,  which  still  groaned 
with  queen  cakes  and  ladies'  fingers,  though  tea  was  al- 
ready over.  The  other  guests  gathered  round  Aunt  Dick- 
son's  chair  and  looked  at  some  fine  crochet  with  their 
backs  purposely  turned  to  Miss  Argle,  who  opened  her 
black  satin  bag  and  hastily  stowed  away  as  many  cakes  as 
it  would  hold.  And  so  deeply  had  the  Wendlebury  change 
affected  Pauline  that  she  forgot  to  think  this  odd,  though 
at  first  she  had  been  paralysed  with  amazement  and  pity. 
It  seemed  to  her  so  terribly  pitiful  that  a  little  old  lady 
like  a  Dresden  china  curate's  wife  should  be  driven  by 
hunger  to  such  expedients. 

Then  she  discovered  that  Miss  Argle  was  quite  comfort- 
ably off,  and  that  the  cake-stealing  was  just  an  aristocratic 
echo,  which  all  Wendlebury  understood,  from  those  royster- 
ing  times  when  Argles  sallied  forth  from  Argle  Tower  to 
lift  their  neighbours'  cattle.  This  foible  in  an  otherwise 
perfectly  sane  and  ordinary  member  of  society  had  not 
been  lopped  off  summarily  because  such  growths  do  sur- 
vive in  very  quiet  places,  and  Pauline  never  felt  sure  that 
the  Wendlebury  ladies  did  not  vaguely  enjoy  being  thus 
so  distantly  connected  with  the  adventurous  past. 

When  the  party  left  and  Pauline  returned  to  her  trans- 
lating upstairs,  Miss  Argle  stayed  on  because  she  greatly 
enjoyed  Aunt  Dickson 's  society,  though  she  and  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere — who  occupied  together  the  summit  of  Wendlebury 
society — always  apologised  to  each  other  for  this  prefer- 
ence by  saying  that  "poor  Mrs.  Dickson  was  so  kind- 
hearted" — a  remark  made  by  some  people  when  they  de- 
sire to  visit  any  one  not  very  high  in  the  social  scale  whom 
a  good  deal  may  be  got-out-of.  At  any  rate,  here  sat  Miss 
Argle  and  Aunt  Dickson  together  in  a  pleasant  room  be- 


CRANBIE'S  SALE  61 

fore  a  bright  fire,  While  the  streets  outside  looked  rather 
cold  and  grey  in  the  spring  evening. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  stayed, ' '  said  Aunt  Dickson ;  "  I  wanted 
to  ask  you  a  favour." 

"Of  course.  Only  I  am  afraid  I  promised  faithfully 
not  to  pass  on  the  recipe  for  gooseberry  jelly.  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere's  cook " 

"It's  not  the  jelly.  But  now  you  mention  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere — I  want  you  to  use  your  influence  with  her  as  well." 

"What  about?" 

Aunt  Dickson  hesitated,  but  the  thought  of  young  Un- 
win  leaning  in  a  drunken  stupor  against  the  portal  of  the 
Dragon  Inn  made  her  go  on. 

"Wendlebury  might  be  considered  a  dull  place " 

"I  never  find  it  dull."  And  Miss  Argle 's  tone  inferred 
that  if  she  did  not 

"Nor  I,"  responded  Miss  Dickson.  "But  a  young  man 
like  Mr.  Unwin  might  do  so.  There  is  very  little  gaiety 
in  the  evenings  because  our  parties  are  nearly  all  for 
luncheon  or  tea.  A  young  man  might,  for  want  of  any- 
thing else,  go  to  a  public-house,  say?" 

"If  he  is  that  kind  of  young  man  ..."  began  Miss 
Argle. 

"Nobody  is  to  start  with,  or  very  few.  But  if  none 
of  his  own  class  ask  him  out  he  gets  lonely.  You  have 
to  make  allowances.  I  think  we  ought  to  invite  Mr.  Un- 
win out  more  in  the  evenings." 

"Has  he ?"  Miss  Argle  paused.  "What  a  dread- 
ful pity !  Such  a  nice  young  man !  He  was  particularly 
pleasant  about  the  dress-suit,  and  never  said  a  word  after- 
wards, though  nobody  wore  one  but  himself  and  my 
nephew  and  they  looked  rather  conspicuous.  I  would  do 
anything  I  could,  but  I  usually  retire  early,  after  a  light 
meal,  bread  and  milk  or  something  of  that  kind."  She 
paused.  ' '  Oh,  I  see !  You  were  thinking  about  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere  in  that  connection.  She  certainly  does  seem  to  be  the 
only  lady  in  Wendlebury  who  has  meat  cooked  in  the 


62  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

evening.  I  always  consider  it  almost  a  little  unrefined 
in  a  lady  to  take  meat  after  sunset.  Still,  in  her  posi- 
tion .  .  .  accustomed  to  it  ...  not  but  what  the  Ar- 
gles  .  .  ." 

"No  one  has  a  better  right  than  the  Argles,"  said 
Aunt  Dickson,  in  perfect  good  faith,  with  no  flippant  ref- 
erence to  the  cattle-lifting  past. 

"But  is  this  true  about  young  Unwin?"  said  Miss 
Argle.  "He  looks  so — so  undrunken,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean?" 

Aunt  Dickson  shook  her  head,  genuinely  grieved  and 
anxious. 

"There's  no  doubt  of  it.  Pauline  saw  him  on  the 
morning  after  Lord  South  water's  lecture  come  stagger- 
ing out  of  the  Green  Dragon  at  Ryeford  still  in  his  dress 
clothes." 

' '  Oh  dear !  Oh  dear !  I  wish  I  had  not  persuaded  him 
to  wear  them,"  said  Miss  Argle,  greatly  distressed.  "Not 
that  it  makes  any  real  difference,  only  it  seems  more — 
more  ribald,  somehow.  Of  course,  I'll  do  my  best." 

They  talked  on  for  some  time  in  lowered  tones,  and  on 
parting  Miss  Argle  said  very  solemnly — 

"It  would  be  an  awful  thing  if  we  had  that  young 
man's  soul  to  answer  for  at  the  Last  Day!" 

For  an  instant  the  pleasant  room  faded,  and  they  had 
a  vision  of  themselves  standing  with  the  other  Wendle- 
bury  ladies  in  a  ring  round  the  throne  of  God.  It  was 
quite  simple  and  very  real.  Miss  Argle  kissed  Aunt  Dick- 
son — a  mark  of  affection  usually  bestowed  only  on  Mrs. 
Delamere — and  went  out. 

A  little  later  Eva  came  to  remove  the  tea-things.  Tak- 
ing up  the  empty  queen-cake  dish  she  remarked  cheer- 
fully— 

"Rum  how  things  is!" 

"Eh,  Eva?"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  who  had  been  nod- 
ding. 

"I  said  things  was  rum.     If  some  folks  was  to  steal 


CRANBIE'S  SALE  63 

cakes  nobody  would  speak  to  'em,  even  if  they  was  ladies 
born.  Same  as  old  Ducky  Bill  in  our  village  that  nabbed 
eggs  by  the  score  for  years  and  nothing  happened,  and 
Ginger  Walker  did  it  once  and  got  taken  up. ' ' 

"It  is  a  mystery,"  said  Aunt  Dickson  sleepily. 

"Yes,  'm.  Like  where  pins  goes  to,"  agreed  Eva. 
"Well,  as  my  mother  used  to  say,  guessing  about  what 
you  know  you  can't  know  is  like  eating  sour  apples. 
You've  only  yourself  to  blame  when  your  inside  gets  un- 
settled. But  us  Martins  was  always  guessers." 

"Eva,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  rousing  herself;  "about 
those  cakes.  .  .  .  You  really  must  not  say  that  Miss  Argle 
took  them." 

"I  never  named  no  names,  'm,"  muttered  Eva,  closing 
the  door.  "But  things  is  rum  and  nobody  on  earth  can't 
make  out  any  different." 


CHAPTER  VII 

STRANGERS 

OUT  of  the  unimportant  world  which  surrounds  Wen- 
dlebury  came  two  strangers  about  the  same  time. 
One  was  an  active,  hit-you-on-the-eye-or-convert-you, 
Church  of  England  missionary,  and  the  other  was  a  young- 
ish untidy  woman,  with  a  queer  air  of  having  been  hunted 
through  life.  They  actually  travelled  down  in  the  same 
train,  which  is  another  proof,  if  any  were  needed,  of  the 
truth  of  Eva's  theory  about  the  eternal  rumness  of  things; 
but  while  the  gentleman  took  his  big,  bright,  Christian 
way  to  the  Vicarage,  the  lady  hastened  along  towards  the 
Ryeford  Road.  When  about  half-way  between  Wendle- 
bury  and  the  Green  Dragon,  she  saw  a  very  small  funeral 
coming  along  the  road  and  stood  quite  still  to  let  it  pass. 
Unwin  rode  with  Doctor  Carter  in  Chubb 's  cab,  and  there 
was  the  hearse,  and  that  was  all. 

The  woman  turned  very  white  and  ran  a  step  or  two 
after  the  cab. 

"Whose  funeral  is  that?"  she  called,  and  both  Unwin 
and  the  doctor  peered  out  amazed  at  this  woman  who 
could  disturb  a  funeral  procession. 

"Hi!  Cabby!"  she  shouted  in  a  high,  shrill  voice, 
"Tell  me!  Do  you  hear?  Tell  me!" 

Chubb  glanced  round,  outraged. 

"Get  away,  woman!" 

She  ran  forward  and  clutched  her  hands  on  the  door 
of  the  slow-moving  cab,  thrusting  her  dark  face  in  at  the 
window. 

"Won't  you  tell  me?" 

64 


STRANGERS  65 

"The  name  is  Johnson.  He  was  a  stranger  who  took 
ill  at  the  inn  and  died  there."  Dr.  Carter  cleared  his 
throat.  "He — he  left  nothing.  He  had  a  small  annuity 
which  died  with  him." 

The  woman's  sallow  face  flushed  crimson,  then  she 
grew  very  pale  again. 

"I  didn't "  She  stopped  short.  "Thank  you." 

Then  she  dropped  behind  and  they  saw  her  no  more. 
"No  use  telling  her  the  name  is  really  Delamere,  even 
if  she  knows,"  said  Dr.  Carter. 

"No.  Poor  chap,  he  wanted  to  be  buried  as  Johnson. 
"What  strange  things  happen!" 

"If  you  were  a  doctor,  you'd  soon  learn  to  find  nothing 
strange!" 

The  vigorous  clergyman  greeted  the  Vicar  on  his  re- 
turn home  from  the  funeral  with  a  robust  Christian  jollity. 
He  thought  that  the  brethren  should  give  the  impres- 
sion of  religious  hustle,  as  if  they  really  were  beginning 
to  rush  people  along  the  road  to  heaven.  And  he  had 
barely  eaten  his  first  piece  of  toast  before  he  was  endeav- 
ouring to  wrench  from  the  Vicar  the  besetting  sin  of 
"Wendlebury,  in  order  that  he  might  go  for  it  that  evening 
and  keep  on  going  for  it  during  the  whole  three  days 
of  the  mission. 

"Specialise!  Concentrate!  You  want  efficiency  in  re- 
ligion as  in  all  else,"  said  the  Missioner,  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fire ;  and  the  Vicar,  who  had  always  held 
himself  to  be  more  energetic  and  hard-working  than  the 
average,  suddenly  felt  wobbling  and  purposeless. 

"But  I  couldn't  really  say.  There  is  no  outstanding 
sin  rampant  here  so  far  as  I  know." 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  know  by  experience  how  one  be- 
comes dulled  through  the  daily  routine.  But  there  must 
be  some  special  fault  that  wants  dealing .  with ;  there  al- 
ways is.  Drink?" 

"No.    I  should  call  "Wendlebury  a  sober  place."    Then 


66  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  Vicar's  eye  brightened,  and  he  felt  he  had  found  a 
sin  before  being  made  to  look  hopelessly  incompetent.  "I 
think  gossip  would  be  a  good  subject.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  gossiping  always  in  a  small  place." 

"Ha!"  said  the  Missioner,  as  if  it  were  a  live  animal 
that  he  was  catching  by  the  tail  and  pinning  down.  ' '  I  '11 
concentrate  on  that  then.  Thank  you!" 

"Another  cup  of  tea?"  said  the  Vicar's  wife,  coldly, 
from  the  sofa.  She  felt  that  the  sins  of  AYendlebury 
were  entirely  the  Vicar's  affair,  and  that  the  Missioner 's 
violent  interest  in  them  was  a  sort  of  spiritual  poaching. 

But  in  the  evening  it  appeared  that  the  man  was  indeed 
a  stirring  preacher.  He  shocked  Miss  Harriet  terribly 
by  making  almost  what  might  be  called  jokes  in  the  pul- 
pit, but  she  did  think,  all  the  same,  that  what  he  said  was 
extraordinarily  applicable  to  Miss  Argle,  while  Miss  Argle 
was  greatly  struck  by  some  remarks  which  seemed  really 
made  for  Miss  Harriet.  The  peroration  was  strong,  mov- 
ing, abruptly-ending,  and  they  all  came  out  wondering 
how  those  felt  for  whom  it  had  been  so  peculiarly  fitted. 

But  Miss  Amelia — being  one  of  the  very  few  who  took 
it  to  themselves — said  nothing  as  she  walked  away  under 
the  stars,  amongst  a  group  of  ladies  in  last  year's  hats 
brightened  with  new  flowers.  She  was  considering  one 
piece  of  advice  given  by  the  practical  Missioner,  which  was 
to  put  a  finger  on  the  lip  when  about  to  gossip,  and  to 
say  inwardly:  "Keep  Thou  the  door  of  my  lips." 

At  Miss  Argle 's  door  the  ladies  parted  and  tripped  home 
separately  or  in  couples  between  the  narrow  white  houses. 
About  it  all  brooded  a  wonderful  security  and  peace  which 
they  did  not  realise  at  all  or  it  could  have  been  no  longer 
theirs. 

"Well,  a  good  many  people  ought  to  have  burning  ears 
to-night,"  said  Miss  Harriet  in  a  satisfied  tone,  as  soon 
as  they  were  alone.  "It  would  not  do  Pauline  Westcott 
any  harm.  I  saw  her  just  in  front  of  me.  She  over- 
dresses for  her  station,  I  consider." 


STRANGERS  67 

"Yes,  they  say  she "  began  Miss  Amelia,  then 

clapped  her  hand  on  her  lips  and  whispered  something. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Miss  Harriet,  not  un- 
naturally. 

But  Miss  Amelia  did  not  say,  her  religion  being  a  very 
shy  and  secret  thing  between  herself  and  her  Maker. 

Unwin  walked  along  the  little  streets  between  his 
office  and  the  Bowling  Green  Inn  feeling  very  cheerful, 
though  he  had  been  truly  grieved  by  Delamere's  lonely 
end.  But  it  takes  a  deep  and  personal  grief  to  depress 
a  young  man  who  has  almost  attained  the  position  he 
would  have  chosen  for  himself  had  the  world  been  given 
him  to  choose  from;  and  Lord  Southwater's  last  letter 
was  written  in  terms  which  left  little  doubt  that  the  next 
would  contain  a  definite  offer.  Unwin  was  wise  enough 
to  know  how  very  rarely  it  happens  in  life  that  a  man  can 
follow  his  own  trade  and  earn  a  good  living,  and  yet  do 
that  which  he  loves  best  and  will  best  bring  out  all  the 
powers  of  his  soul  and  intellect.  So  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  called  a  cheerful  good-day  to  Mrs.  Chubb  when  he 
encountered  her  hurrying  along  the  pavement ;  but  he 
was  astonished  to  see  her  stop,  gasp,  goggle  and  pant  out, 
holding  on  to  his  sleeve  lest  he  should  walk  on  before 
she  could  find  breath:  "Judgment  .  .  .  fortune-telling 
.  .  .  edged  fire  .  .  .  for  God's  sake  go  in  at  that  open 
door  while  I  run  for  oil,  and  see  if  she's  smouldering." 

Mrs.  Chubb  let  go  his  sleeve  as  suddenly  and  bolted 
up  the  street,  leaving  him  staring  after  her.  But  as  it 
is  obviously  impossible  to  leave  any  person  smouldering 
while  you  speculate,  he  turned  round,  ran  to  the  indi- 
cated door,  and  followed  a  smell  into  a  darkened  room. 

At  first  he  could  distinguish  nothing  after  the  strong, 
spring  light  outside,  then  he  saw  a  candle  burning  in  the 
gloom,  and  at  last  a  white  face  looking  out  at  him  with  a 
dreadful  expectancy  over  the  candle — 

"You — you've  brought  some  message?" 


68  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Then  he  recognised  the  woman  who  had  peered  into 
Chubb 'a  cab  as  it  followed  Delamere  to  the  grave.  He 
shook  his  head,  feeling  he  would  have  given  worlds  to 
tell  her  a  comforting  lie;  but  he  could  not  lie  with  those 
eyes  upon  him. 

"How  ridiculous!"  She  stepped  back,  trying  to  laugh. 
"I  don't  know  what  I  said  that  for.  .  .  .  Suppose  I  was 
startled  by  your  bursting  into  the  rooms.  What  do  you 
want?" 

"Mrs.  Chubb  sent  me.  She — she  said  you  were  smoul- 
dering." 

Then,  in  spite  of  the  misery  in  her  eyes,  the  woman 
did  genuinely  laugh. 

"It  was  not  me,  only  a  bit  of  my  sleeve  and  my  land- 
lady rs  antimacassar.  But  Mrs.  Chubb  had  just  asked  to 
have  her  fortune  told — curiosity  warring  against  con- 
science and  getting  the  best  of  it — and  she  thought  hell-fire 
had  combusted  spontaneously.  I  dare  say  the  darkened 
room  and  all  that  scared  her.  This  black  yashmak  and 
drawn  curtains  in  the  daytime  are  my  modern  substitute 
for  the  witches'  cat,  you  see." 

She  talked  quickly,  her  voice  high  and  reedy  with  the 
excitement  of  controlled  emotion  and  yet  resolutely  gay. 
Unwin  felt  something  in  himself  respond  to  her  so  strongly 
that  it  leapt  over  the  first  barriers  of  this  strange  ac- 
quaintanceship and  made  him  blurt  out  suddenly — 

"What  on  earth  ever  made  you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  well!"  She  bent  forward  to  look  at  him  and 
the  candle  threw  queer  lights  and  shadows  on  her  thin 
face.  "You  needn't  think  he  had  anything  to  do  with 
it!"  she  said  defensively. 

"No,"   said   Unwin. 

"We  met  out  in  Australia,  you  know.  I  had  enough  to 
exist  on  ...  I  have  now.  Only  I  can't  exist.  I  must 
have  plenty  or  starve.  So  here  I  am  tied  to  these  lodgings 
until  next  quarter  day,  when  my  remittance  comes.  And 
I'm  making  a  bit  by  fortune-telling,  as  I  always  do  when 


STRANGERS  69 

I  get  a  chance  in  the  lean  times."  She  paused,  smiling 
at  him  with  her  odd,  rather  one-sided,  smile.  "Garrulous 
woman,  eh?  But  there's  method  in  my  madness.  I 

want "  Her  voice  sank  in  spite  of  herself  from  its 

gay  note.  "I  want  to  be  left  in  peace  for  a  little  while.'* 

"You  don't  suppose —      ''  began  Unwin  hotly. 

"I  didn't  know.  It  was  you  who  sent  the  letter  and 
the  photograph  from  him.  I  thought  you  might  be  con- 
nected with  the  Delameres  and  want  me  out  of  the  place. 
You  know  I'm  the  Delia  Lambert  you  wrote  to  for  him." 

"Of  course  I  do."  He  paused.  "But  you  must  be 
aware  that  he  called  himself  Johnson  while  he  was  in 
these  parts.  He  was  buried  as  Johnson." 

She  looked  down,  thinking,  for  quite  a  long  time. 

"So  it  came  to  that,  did  it?"  she  said  at  last.  "Then 
nobody  knows  but  you  and  me?" 

"Dr.  Carter  knows  also,  but  he  will  never  tell,"  said 
Unwin.  "Poor  Delamere  had  such  a  strong  wish;  and 
it's  all  we  can  do  for  him  now — to  keep  quiet." 

"Are  you  afraid  I  shall  try  to  get  anything  out  of 
Lord  South  water  or  Mrs.  Delamere?  You  needn't  be." 
She  broke  off.  "Good  God!  You  don't  suppose  I  want 
to  advertise.  .  .  .  But  it  was  like  him,  wasn't  it?  to  for- 
get me  for  years  and  then  send  me  that  letter  and  photo- 
graph when  he  was  dying  ?  I  never  knew  such  a  sentimen- 
talist .  .  .  and  yet  ..." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Unwin.  "You  couldn't  help 
loving  him." 

"You  felt  that  too?"  she  said,  and  a  beautiful  change 
came  over  her  face,  making  the  mocking  lips  tender  and 
the  eyes  wide,  for  she  was  finding  that  greatest  human 
comfort  of  all  mourners  in  meeting  some  one  who  had 
loved  the  dead.  "I  was  at  the  funeral,"  she  continued 
in  a  low  voice.  "And  when  it  was  all  over  I  just  crept 
into  the  Bowling  Green  Inn.  I — I  couldn't  go  away." 

Unwin  went  nearer  to  her  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
arm. 


70  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Poor  girl!    Poor  girl!" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right  here,"  she  said  quickly.  "These 
rooms  are  very  cheap  because  my  landlady  is  a  little  work- 
ing dressmaker  who  is  out  all  day.  She  is  a  kind  soul, 
and  tells  her  ladies  about  me  in  strictest  confidence,  and 
they  all  say  how  foolish  and  wrong  fortune-telling  is." 

"That's  a  nuisance,"  said  Unwin. 

"Oh,  they  come  all  the  same,"  said  Delia,  with  her 
sudden,  odd  smile. 

He  smiled  responsive,  but  she  looked  so  fragile — with 
such  a  different  fragility  to  Pauline's — so  battered  by  life, 
that  it  was  like  seeing  a  woman  push  a  load  too  heavy  for 
her  strength.  He  was  impelled  to  try  and  push  too. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  must  let  me  help  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  I  don't  need  any  help,  thank  you.  And  so  far 
as  that  goes  ..."  She  grew  grave  and  tender  again. 
"Oh,  you'll  never  know  how  you  have  helped  me." 

"But  let  me  do  something.  There  must  be  something 
I  can  do  for  you,"  he  urged. 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "You  can  stay  here  while  I 
go  upstairs  to  change  my  singed  blouse,  and  reassure 
Mrs.  Chubb.  I  don't  want  her  to  go  away  with  the  idea 
that  there  is  anything  seriously  satanic  about  me  for 
fear  she  upsets  my  little  dressmaker  and  I  get  turned 
out." 

"That's  nothing,"  said  Unwin. 

She  glanced  back  at  him  from  the  doorway  with  her 
twisted  smile,  but  there  was  a  keen  edge  of  decision  in 
her  tone. 

"It's  all  I  want  doing,  you  see,  Sir  Knight.  The  glove 
is  in  the  arena." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said  quickly.  "There  is  something 
about  Mrs.  Chubb  rather  like  a  long,  wobbly,  soiled  kid 
glove — now  one  comes  to  think  of  it." 

But  as  he  sat  down  to  wait  for  Mrs.  Chubb  and  began 
to  think  things  over,  he  did  realise  how  very  queer  it  all 


STRANGERS  71 

was;  here  lie  sat  in  a  dark  room  with  one  candle  burning 
as  if  he  were  going  to  tell  fortunes  himself.  It  must  be 
rather  a  lark,  telling  fortunes,  he  thought;  and  he  put 
on  the  black  silk  yashmak  to  try  the  full  effect  of  his 
surroundings. 

He  was  thus  engaged  when  Mrs.  Chubb  rushed  in  with 
the  oil  bottle. 

' '  What !  You  're  ready !  You  're  all  right  ? "  she  panted, 
breathless. 

And  at  once  a  brilliant  inspiration  came  to  Unwin. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  drawing  the  yashmak  closer  and 
placing  the  candle  further  away.  "I  was  not  burnt  at 
all,  only  the  antimacassar.  But  I  have  lost  my  voice 
through  the  shock.  I  do  if  I  fall  downstairs,  or — or  any- 
thing. Constantly  doing  it  ...  from  a  child  .  .  .  often 
spanked. ' ' 

"No!"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "Well,  I'm  a  believer  in  cor- 
prill  punishment  myself.  Them  lads  next  door  ..." 

"Well,  shall  we  begin?"  said  Unwin,  placing  the  other 
chair  invitingly  in  the  light  while  he  sat  in  the  shadow. 

"Not  for  me;  thanking  you  all  the  same,"  said  Mrs. 
Chubb,  backing  towards  the  door. 

Unwin  wished  he  had  not  started  the  game,  for  this 
seemed  no  way  of  reassuring  Mrs.  Chubb;  but  he  felt 
now  bound  to  go  on  lest  he  should  make  matters  worse. 

"But  you  must  want  to  know  just  one  thing,"  he 
whispered  insinuatingly,  "otherwise  you  would  never 
have  asked  me  to  tell  your  fortune.  Come  now,  what 
is  it?" 

Mrs.  Chubb  reluctantly  sat  down.  Then  she  started 
up  again. 

"What  have  you  done  with  Mr.  Unwin?" 

"Oh,  he's  all  right:  had  some  silly  business  or  other 
to  attend  to,"  said  Unwin  hastily. 

"Um,  he  generally  has,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  reassured 
by  such  a  common-sense  supposition  and  seating  herself 


72  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

once  more.  "He  is  a  silly  young  fool  at  the  best  o* 
times. ' ' 

"H'h'm!"  said  Tin  win,  turning  his  sudden  chuckle  into 
a  cough.  "But  do  let  us  start  now,  Mrs.  Chubb,  and  for- 
get all  about  him." 

"Well,  just  for  the  joke  of  the  thing.  There's  nothing 
in  it,  of  course.  I  suppose  you  want  my  hand?" 

"N-no,"  said  Unwin,  spurred  on  by  this  new  difficulty 
and  hiding  his  own  under  the  table.  "I  just  gaze  into 
the  future." 

"Um,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  "I've  see  a-many  gipsies  do 
it,  and  they  always  took  hold  of  your  hand.  I  suppose 
real  professionals  does."  She  sighed.  "Well,  I  was  going 
to  ask  you  if  I  should  get  another  husband  when  Chubb 's 
gone?  I've  often  wondered  that,  hearing  him  snoring  at 
nights  and  thinking  how  lonesome  I  shall  be." 

"But  you're  both  about  the  same  age.  Perhaps  you'll 
die  first,"  said  Unwin,  hastily  ranging  himself  among  the 
husbands  of  the  world. 

"Then  you  can't  tell  me.  I  thought  not,  not  want- 
ing me  hand  nor  nothing."  She  rose.  "There  was  one 
more  question " 

"Do  ask  it,  Mrs.  Chubb,"  interposed  Unwin  in  an 
urgent  whisper,  anxious  to  retrieve  his  mistake.  "Please 
do  ask  it." 

"Well,  as  I  am  here.  Does  Chubb  ...  I  mean  is  there 
..."  She  paused,  finding  a  difficulty.  "You  see  Chubb 's 
such  a  taking  man  with  the  ladies."  And  she  threw  her- 
self thus  on  the  hearer's  understanding. 

"You  wish  to  know,  in  short,"  said  Unwin,  with  great 
solemnity,  "if  you  have  a  rival?" 

Mrs.  Chubb  nodded,  her  round  eyes  almost  supernat- 
urally  round  in  her  pale  moon-face. 

"He's  such  a  taking  man,  you  see.  It  isn't  him  I 
blame." 

"Of  course  not,"  agreed  Unwin.  "Wait  a  moment. 
Keep  Bilence.  Hush!  I  see  ..." 


STRANGERS  73 

"Not  that  widder  next  door!" 

"Brown  hair  .  .  .  large  .  .  .  very  large  ...  I  can't 
quite  ..." 

"The  hussy!  I  thought  so.  Twelve  stone  if  she's  a 
pound.  And  her  hair  dyed  as  sure  as  my  name 's  Chubb. ' ' 

"I  see  ...  legs  .  .  ." 

"Ma'am,"  cried  Mrs.  Chubb,  " you've  gone  far  enough 
for  me ! " 

"Two,  three,  four.  Mrs.  Chubb,  I  see  four  legs. 

It's "  he  relapsed  into  his  ordinary  tone,  "it's 

Griselda!" 

"Ah!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Chubb,  jumping  up  and  pulling 
at  the  yashmak.  "It's  you!  You  and  your  Tom-fool 
tricks !  I  might  ha '  known ! ' ' 

"You  never  would,"  said  Unwin,  "but  for  the  fact 
that  I  couldn't,  after  all,  sow  life-long  dissension  between 
you  and  Chubb." 

"Take  shame  to  yourself,  Mr.  Unwin,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 
"You're  the  very  one  to  get  mixed  up  with  fortune-telling 
and  all  that,  you  are!" 

"Come  to  that,"  said  Unwin,  for  a  worm  will  turn,  "it 
was  you  who  sent  me  in  here,  you  know. ' ' 

"It  was,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  "and  I  ought  to  have 
known  better.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  sending  you 
into  a  rum  affair  would  only  make  it  rummer.  Where's 
that  poor  young  lady?" 

He  was  so  immensely  relieved  to  find  from  Mrs.  Chubb 's 
tone  that  she  had  now  ranged  herself  on  the  side  of  all 
the  women  in  the  world  against  him,  that  he  called  gaily 
up  the  stairs — 

"Miss  Lambert!  Miss  Lambert!  Show  yourself  be- 
fore I  go!  Mrs.  Chubb  thinks  I've  murdered  you  and 
hidden  the  remains  in  the  coal-cellar." 

She  emerged  on  the  top  of  the  steep,  narrow  staira  and 
stood  smiling  down  on  them. 

"Isn't  he  a  goose,  Mrs.  Chubb?" 

But  Mrs.  Chubb 's  fluency  had  deserted  her,  and  *he 


74  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

was  once  more  fish-like,  opening  her  lips  without  sound. 
At  last,  however,  she  murmured — 

"Kettle's  boiling!" 

So  Unwin  was  able  to  depart  with  the  comfortable  con- 
viction that  Mrs.  Chubb  and  Delia  Lambert  would  wash 
down  the  last  flavour  of  brimstone  in  a  friendly  cup  of 
tea. 

The  ladies  over  their  cups  naturally  discussed  him. 

"He's  a  young  fool,  always  up  to  some  prank  or  an- 
other," remarked  Mrs.  Chubb. 

Miss  Lambert  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "Fools 
can't  fool!" 

Mrs.  Chubb  stared,  opened  her  mouth  and  then  placed 
a  bit  of  bread-and-butter  within  it.  She  at  once  and  ir- 
revocably placed  her  companion  in  the  same  class. 

Outside  in  the  street  Unwin  encountered  Pauline  hurry- 
ing towards  the  house  which  he  had  just  left,  and  some 
vague  instinct  made  him  desire  to  turn  her  back.  He 
liked  Pauline,  and  he  liked  Delia,  but  he  felt,  quite 
vaguely,  that  they  were  best  apart.  So  he  stopped  in  spite 
of  an  absolute  lack  of  encouragement. 

"Off  to  the  fortune-teller's,  eh?" 

But  Pauline  saw  between  them  the  picture  of  him  lean- 
ing against  the  door-post  of  the  Dragon,  and  so  responded 
nervously — 

1 '  Just  for  the  .  fun  of  it.  I  don 't  really  believe  .  .  . 
Have  you  been?" 

"Yes,  but  she  is  off-colour  this  afternoon,  had  a  slight 
accident.  I  would  put  off  going  if  I  were  you ! ' ' 

"Did  you  have  your  fortune  told?" 

"No." 

Pauline  stood  hesitating. 

"It  was  more  for  Aunt  Dickson;  she  does  so  want  to 
hear  all  about  the  dark  room  and  that.  You  know  how 
she  loves  to  be  in  things." 


STRANGERS  75 

"She  is.  She's  the  still  point  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
"Wendlebury  wheels,"  said  Unwin,  laughing. 

"Oh,  she'd  be  so  disappointed,  I  must  go  on,"  said 
Pauline,  taking  a  new  resolution. 

So  he  was  obliged  to  part  from  her,  wondering  a  little 
at  the  aloof  constraint  of  her  bow  and  her  manner  gener- 
ally. He  began  to  turn  over  in  his  mind  all  he  had  said 
and  done  in  her  presence  during  the  past  weeks,  but 
lie  remembered  nothing  which  could  by  any  possibility 
have  given  her  offence.  It  worried  him  intermittently 
all  day,  and  once  when  he  awoke  in  the  night. 

Pauline  meanwhile  went  on  feeling  quite  out  of  tune 
for  the  fortune-telling  which  had  seemed  such  a  joke  when 
she  started  out.  She  could  only  think  how  sad  and  in- 
credible was  the  fact  that  Unwin  drank,  and  wish  there 
were  anything  she  could  do  to  help  him.  But  the  idea 
of  mentioning  the  subject  to  him,  which  she  sometimes  har- 
boured in  his  absence,  became  impossible  in  his  presence. 
You  simply  could  not,  in  the  face  of  that  pleasant,  buoy- 
ant friendliness,  hand  him  even  a  verbal  tract. 

But  the  result  of  all  this  was  that  she  sat  down  in  the 
darkened  room — which  was  far  less  impressive  than  the 
palmist's  den  which  she  had  previously  seen  in  London — 
and  listened  with  only  half  an  ear  to  the  warnings  and 
promises  of  her  future.  Only  at  the  end  did  she  really 
attend,  when  the  fortune-teller  said,  smiling — 

' '  You  have  never  cared  for  a  man.    But  you  could ! ' ' 

"I've  never  had  time,  until  lately,"  laughed  Pauline, 
rising.  "Perhaps  Wendlebury  will  do  it." 

Delia  had  risen  now — she  was  a  little  taller  than  Pau- 
line— and  had  taken  off  her  black  cloak.  The  two  women 
stood  together. 

"Keep  aloof  as  you  are,"  said  Delia  suddenly.  "That's 
best.  You're  like  me.  You'll  know  no  middle  course  in 
love." 

Pauline  drew  herself  up,  somehow  a  little  offended. 

"Thank  you  so  much.    It  has  been  delightful." 


76'  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Then  she  walked  away  with  her  head  delicately  in  the 
air,  and  did  not  notice  Miss  Amelia,  who  passed  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way  so  veiled  and  cloaked  that  the  very 
cat  on  the  sidewalk  eyed  her  suspiciously,  knowing  it  for 
a  disguise. 

"Not,"  as  she  said  wistfully  to  Delia,  five  minutes 
later,  "that  I  expect  anything  to  happen.  Only  it  is  rather 
nice  to  feel  for  a  little  while  as  if  you  thought  you  were 
expecting  something  to  happen." 

And  Delia,  sore  put  to  it,  tried  to  tell  her  customer  a 
fairy  tale  which  should  cheer  the  present  and  not  make 
the  future  too  utterly  disappointing.  In  the  middle  of 
it  all,  Miss  Amelia  raised  a  trembling  hand. 

"Don't  tell  me  if  I  am  to  be  run  over  or  anything  of 
that  kind.  I  would  rather  not  know.  I  have  not  a  strong 
intelligence  like  my  sister  and  it  might  prey  on  my  mind." 

So  Delia  reassured  her,  and  she  went  away  feeling  ad- 
venturous and  happy,  turning  at  the  last  to  remark  in  a 
confidential  tone — 

' '  I  believe  I  saw  Miss  Pauline  Westcott.  I  do  trust  you 
were  able  to  tell  her  something  nice." 

"I  was,"  said  Delia,  smiling. 

"I  urn  glad  of  that,"  sighed  Miss  Amelia,  relieved. 
"Miss  Pauline  is  all  right  with  Mrs.  Dickson  now  she  is 
young,  but  it  is  rather  nice  to  have  some  one  of  your 
very  own  when  you  get  older,  is  it  not?" 

Then  she  went  away;  and  Mrs.  Chubb  also  emerging  at 
the  same  moment  with  the  inevitable  bass,  the  two  collided 
in  the  narrow  passage  and  reached  the  street  together. 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Amelia  in  a  soft  squeak  like  a  rabbit. 
"You,  Mrs.  Chubb!  I  have  just  been  ...  a  little  mat- 
ter about  a  serge  skirt."  And  she  was  able  to  satisfy  her 
conscience,  because  she  had  indeed  prepared  a  truthful 
message  for  the  dressmaker  in  case  of  such  an  emergency. 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  fortune-teller?"  whispered 
Mrs.  Ghubli,  passing  over  all  that  at  a  bound. 


STRANGERS  77 

And  Miss  Amelia,  wondering  what  she  did  thinly  sud- 
denly saw. 

''I'm  sorry  for  her." 

"You  needn't  be,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  always  vaguely 
ready  to  discountenance  giving,  for  fear  there  should 
somehow  be  less  for  her.  "People  who'll  have  fried  sole 
one  day  and  bread-and-butter  the  next  .  .  .  Well!" 

"I  suppose  you  can  do  nothing  for  them,"  agreed  Miss 
Amelia  with  a  sigh. 

"What  would  the  world  be  like  if  we  were  all  like 
that?"  demanded  Mrs.  Chubb,  annoyed  by  this  latent  tol- 
eration. 

"No.  No.  But  one  or  two.  They  seem  somehow  to 
make  a  change,"  murmured  Miss  Amelia.  "And  I  don't 
think  they  ever  get  anything  out  of  it  for  themselves  ex- 
cepting, perhaps,  making  fun.  ..."  Here  she  became 
too  involved,  even  for  her,  and  stopped. 

"Fun!"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "That's  Mr.  Unwin'a  word. 
What's  the  use  of  fun  to  anybody?  There'll  be  no  fun 
in  heaven ! ' ' 

But  Miss  Amelia  had  been  a  good  deal  stirred  by  her 
afternoon's  adventure,  and  though  she  made  no  reply 
a  wistful  thought  passed  through  her  mind  that  she 
rather  hoped  there  would  be;  she  would  rather  like  a 
chance  to  make  up  for  lost  time  here. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LADIES   IN  A   CHAE-A-BANO 

AUNT  DICKSON  migrated  like  the  birds  every  spring, 
and  gained  from  the  journey  a  like  sense  of  jollity 
and  things  beginning  well  again,  though  she  only  went 
with  her  chair  and  her  adaptable  tortoise  from  the  fire- 
place to  the  window,  where  she  sat  nodding  and  smiling  at 
every  friend  who  passed  by.  Dr.  Carter  and  the  news- 
girl  both  felt  heartened,  as  one  is  by  swallows  coming 
back,  though  the  doctor  was  a  careworn  man  knowing  too 
much  of  life,  and  the  news-girl  a  cynic  with  a  constant 
cold  in  her  head  who  knew  too  little. 

After  a  while  Aunt  Dickson  raised  herself  in  her  chair 
and  stood  up,  waving  her  hand  to  a  long,  old-fashioned, 
red-seated  char-a-banc  which  went  past  filled  with  ladies. 
They  all  waved  back  to  her,  sleeves  and  laces  fluttering, 
dogs  barked,  the  fine  rain  slanted  across  the  street  with 
an  April  gleam  behind  it  though  this  was  the  first  week 
in  May.  Miss  Amelia,  bowing  and  smiling  right  and  left, 
remarked :  ' '  Dear  me !  I  quite  feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  pro- 
cession. I  don't  know  why  .  .  .  very  foolish.  But  I  have 
that  sort  of  elated  feeling  I  can  imagine  our  dear  Royal 
family  to  experience  when  passing  down  Constitution 
Hill." 

"What  nonsense  you  talk,  Amelia,"  said  Miss  Harriet, 
"and,  Pauline,  why  on  earth  does  Mrs.  Dickson  not  have 
a  bath-chair?" 

"She  won't,"  said  Pauline;  "she  hates  it!" 

"You  ought  to  make  her,"  said  Miss  Harriet. 

"I've  tried  my  best,"  answered  Pauline,  "but  the  only 

78 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  79 

time  I  succeeded  she  was  not  so  well  afterwards  and  Dr. 
Carter  told  me  to  leave  her  alone." 

''Very  unreasonable,"  said  Miss  Harriet. 

Then  Unwin  leaned  forward  from  his  hidden  place 
between  the  flowing  rain-cloaks  of  Miss  Amelia  and  the 
Vicar's  wife. 

"All  really  nice  people  have  an  unreasonable  spot  some- 
where," he  said.  "My  landlady,  who  is  a  comparative 
angel,  will  sing  hymns  at  6  a.m.  And  yet  when  I  told 
her  she  was  not  an  angel  yet,  she  gave  me  notice.  She'd 
always  praised  the  Lord  when  she  was  blacking  the  kitchen 
grate  and  always  should;  so  we  had  to  leave  it  at  that, 
of  course." 

It  must  be  explained  that  Unwin  was  here  simply 
because  the  Vicar  had  come  to  him  that  morning  and 
had  asked  him,  not  ecclesiastically  but  as  one  decent, 
suffering  fellow-man  to  another,  how  on  earth  it  was 
possible  to  turn  up  at  the  Rural  Dean's  with  all  these 
women  and  not  a  single  man,  the  curate  being  suddenly 
obliged  to  have  a  tooth  extracted.  The  Rural  Dean  would 
not  like  it,  suitable  male  members  of  the  congregation 
being  specially  invited,  and  in  short  the  Vicar  begged 
Unwin  as  a  personal  favour  to  join  the  party.  Perhaps 
he  was  not  altogether  without  guile  in  mentioning  that 
Miss  Pauline  Westcott  would  also  view  the  magnificent 
show  of  bulbs  which  formed  the  ostensible  reason  for  the 
expedition,  though  he  mentioned  Mary  Carter  in  the  same 
breath  and  appeared  absolutely  unconscious  that  one  girl 
would  be  more  likely  to  attract  Unwin  than  the  other. 

Some  distance  behind  the  char-a-banc  came  Chubb 's 
cab,  open,  bearing  Mrs.  Delamere  in  solitary  state.  This 
was  to  show  that  she  had  been  invited,  as  she  said,  "in  her 
own  right,"  and  not  as  a  member  of  the  congregation. 
The  honour  was  shared  by  Miss  Argle  who,  however,  had 
been  obliged  to  remain  at  home  at  the  last  moment  owing 
to  the  serious  illness  of  Mr.  Argle  of  Argle  Hall. 

Miss  Harriet,  in  the  char-a-banc,  gave  this  information 


80  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

somewhat  pompously,  and  added  that  the  invalid  was  a 
remarkably  clever  man  .  .  .  believed  in  nothing  ...  all 
that  sort  of  thing. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  "why  people  who  be- 
lieve in  nothing  are  always  considered  so  clever.  Now  I 
should  have  thought  it  was  much  cleverer  ...  in  these  days 
.  .  .  such  awful  things  happening  ..."  But  she  sud- 
denly realised  every  one  was  listening  to  her  and  tailed 
off  into  an  embarrassed  silence. 

Then  the  rain  cleared,  and  the  ladies  took  off  their 
cloaks  with  little  pleasant  twitterings,  like  birds  after  a 
shower;  the  Vicar  leaned  back  from  the  box-seat  with 
quite  a  jovial,  man-of-the-world  air,  saying  it  was  uncom- 
mon pleasant.  Unwin  looked  across  at  Pauline's  vivid 
face  as  she  talked  to  breezy,  hockey-playing,  kindly  Mary 
Carter  and  thought  the  same. 

"Pity  Miss  Argle  is  not  here,"  said  the  Vicar's  wife. 

"All  the  more  cakes "  began  Miss  Amelia  and  then 

put  her  finger  on  her  lip  and  muttered. 

The  Vicar's  wife  naturally  looked  surprised,  and  Miss 
Harriet  whispered  sharply  to  her  sister — 

"Amelia,  you  are  always  doing  that!  It  is  a  dreadful 
habit:  like  biting  one's  nails.  Any  one  might  think  you 
were  not  quite  right  in  your  head." 

But  Miss  Amelia  clung  to  this  little  secret  between 
herself  and  her  Maker  and  said  nothing,  though  she  felt 
dreadfully  uncomfortable. 

At  last  the  vehicle  turned  in  at  the  wide  gates  and  the 
Rural  Dean  stood  before  his  handsome  doorway,  giving 
an  example,  as  he  perhaps  meant  to  do,  of  the  way  in 
which  the  Church  on  earth  could,  with  sufficient  private 
means,  approach  the  ideal  of  those  many  mansions  which 
the  Wendlebury  people  thought  of  during  public  worship 
and  hoped  one  day  to  inhabit. 

Tea  was  taken  in  the  spacious  hall,  where  a  faded,  pretty 
wife  was  perhaps  too  kind,  and  a  tall  daughter  obviously 
bored.  The  Wendlebury  ladies  grew  by  degrees  very. 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  81 

calm  and  dignified,  even  Miss  Amelia  rising  with  a  little 
air  when  the  time  came  to  walk  among  the  flower-beds. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  to  Pauline,  "it  will  be  pleasant  to 
get  out  into  the  garden,  will  it  not?  Mr.  Unwin  will  per- 
haps accompany  us." 

So  they  all  scattered  among  the  lovely  beds  of  parrot 
and  May-flowering  tulips  bordered  with  purple  aubretia 
and  palest  golden  polyanthus.  Everything  was  wonder- 
fully fresh  and  fragrant  after  the  rain,  and  beyond  the 
hedge  of  lilac  bushes  could  be  seen  the  grey  square  tower 
of  a  little  church  a  mile  and  a  half  away;  another,  held 
by  the  Rural  Dean,  lay  on  the  far  side  of  the  garden. 

Security,  unheeded,  unrealised,  or  it  could  not  have 
been  so  perfect,  lay  over  the  whole  place  like  the  beauti- 
ful spring  light  for  which  no  one  had  to  be  thankful. 
The  Wendlebury  ladies  in  their  best  dresses  stepped  along 
the  carefully  tended  paths,  holding  their  skirts  from  flow- 
ery borders  still  sprayed  with  the  light  shower.  A  young 
son  of  the  house  was  laughing  with  Mary  Carter  near  a 
sun-dial  which  said,  "I  mark  only  happy  hours."  Miss 
Amelia  joined  the  Vicar,  and  after  a  little  while  Mrs. 
Delamere  came  forth,  flashing  her  teeth  at  the  Rural  Dean 
who  walked  beside  her. 

A  little  constraint  fell  on  Unwin  and  Pauline  now  they 
were  alone,  because  since  they  last  met  they  had  thought 
so  much  of  each  other. 

"What  church  is  that?"  said  Pauline,  making  talk. 

"Mardyke.  It  is  a  tiny  church  with  a  very  beautiful 
old  window  and  a  fine  monument  of  a  Delamere  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  You  ought  to  see  it  now  you  are  here. ' ' 
He  warmed  to  his  subject.  "They're  wonderful,  these 
little  churches  of  England.  Nothing  just  like  them  in  the 
world,  standing  among  the  trees  and  flowers  of  the  church- 
yards. We  shall  never  really  know  .  .  .  unless  something 
takes  them  away  from  us.  Won't  you  come  now  and  have 
a  look  at  this  one?  It's  better  than  bulbs,  any  day." 

She  paused. 


82  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"All  right.  I  love  old  village  churches,  too.  There's 
something  so  peaceful  ..." 

They  began  to  walk  along  together,  and  he  took  out 
his  watch. 

"Oh!  heaps  of  time,  nearly  two  hours  yet.  "We  shall 
have  to  get  the  key  from  the  village  as  we  go  through." 
He  laughed.  "Any  more  ghosts,  Miss  Pauline?" 

' '  No.    Dear  Miss  Amelia ! ' ' 

So  they  talked  together  of  simple  things,  gathering  a 
few  late  primroses  under  the  hedge  and  looking  at  a  bird 's 
nest  carefully,  with  peering  faces  near  together,  and  gay 
hushed  voices. 

There  was  a  charm  about  Pauline  to-day,  a  sort  of 
sexless  freshness,  which  made  this  walk  seem  to  Unwin 
like  going  back  to  boyhood.  And  indeed  she  had  been 
singularly  untouched  by  the  usual  girlish  experiences 
during  her  life  in  London.  She  worked  very  hard  from 
morning  to  night,  and  her  thoughts  were  full  of  work, 
and  she  never  had  much  trouble  with  the  ' '  questing  beast ' ' 
which  is  supposed  by  some  to  lurk  within  most  male  em- 
ployers of  female  labour.  It  may  have  put  its  nose  forth 
now  and  then — the  world  being  the  world — but  it  perhaps 
sniffed  Pauline's  aloof  virginity  and  retired.  Any  way 
she  remained  untouched  though  not  ignorant. 

This  aloofness  or  elusiveness  also  puzzled  Unwin  though 
it  did  not  repel  him,  because  "Wendlebury  had  changed 
Pauline  and  she  was  now  less  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp  and 
more  like  a  steady  lamp  in  a  far  window  guiding  some- 
hody  home.  It  was  home  Unwin  thought  of  as  they  stood 
by  the  cottage  door  while  the  woman  looked  for  the  key. 

"It  isn't  here,"  she  said.  "I'll  send  to  the  carpenter's 
for  it.  He  had  it  mending  the  pulpit.  My  girl  11  be  after 
you  in  a  minute." 

But  they  had  looked  at  all  the  tombstones  grown  round 
with  violets  and  forget-me-nots  before  a  heavy-looking 
girl  of  fifteen  came  towards  them,  remarking  stolidly: 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  83 

"  I  've  unlocked  the  door.  I  '11  wait  here  till  you  've  done. ' ' 
And  she  sat  down  on  a  flat  stone  in  the  sunshine. 

The  pleasant,  coloured  twilight  falling  through  the  East 
window  and  through  the  little  plain  old  windows  set  high 
in  the  stone  walls  seemed  solemn  to  Pauline  after  the 
flowers  and  the  blue  sky.  She  watched  Unwin  with  a  sort 
of  pricking  interest  and  curiosity  as  he  stood  looking  about 
the  church,  the  light  on  his  keen  face  and  steady  eyes.  If 
she  had  not  herself  seen  him  outside  the  Dragon  doorway 
in  his  tumbled  dress  clothes  she  could  never  have  believed 
him  guilty:  any  suspicion  not  founded  on  absolute  fact 
must  have  vanished  like  a  dream  at  this  moment. 

As  it  was,  she  felt  a  sudden  overwhelming  kindness 
and  pity.  She  must  help  him.  She  would  help  him. 
But  how? 

Something  deep  within  her  answered,  by  believing  in 
him;  by  making  him  wish  to  retain  that  belief  unshad- 
owed; by  never  letting  him  glimpse  the  passing  of  a 
shadow  .  .  . 

He  was  speaking  to  her  from  the  old  choir  seats. 

"Look  at  these;  they're  grotesque  enough.  But  the 
chap  who  carved  them  meant  it  ...  it  wasn't  just  for 
money.  He  felt  jolly  the  day  he  did  that  grinning  face. 
He  liked  doing  it.  I  can  just  see  him,  can't  you?  Good 
old  chap!" 

Unwin  passed  his  hand  across  the  wood  with  a  queer 
sort  of  affection  and  fellowship ;  he  seemed  to  be  greeting 
a  brother  across  all  the  years.  They  both  knew  what  it 
was  to  love  the  work,  not  the  end  of  the  work  only.  He 
had  almost  forgotten  Pauline. 

"You'd  have  liked  to  live  then?"  she  said. 

He  came  back  to  her,  straightening  himself. 

"No,  no.  It's  splendid  being  in  this  age;  better  than 
it  ever  has  been,  if  you  like  to  make  it  so." 

She  understood,  having  also  been  a  worker. 

"If  you've  great  luck,  and  are  very  strong,  perhaps," 
she  said.  Then  she  smiled.  "Anyway,  you'll  have  both.- 


84  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  joy  in  work  and  the  reward,  with  Lord  Southwater. " 

"Yes."  He  looked  round.  "This  church  is  the  very 
one  he  will  want  me  to  start  on,  I  expect,  if  I  get  the  job. 
The  structure  is  giving  in  the  chancel  and  he  has  prom- 
ised to  restore  it." 

"You're  certain  to  get  the  post,"  said  Pauline.  "The 
Vicar  told  Aunt  Dickson  how  much  he  liked  you. ' ' 

"Well" — he  walked  towards  the  door — "I  can't  stay 
in  Wendlebury  as  I  am,  that's  certain.  I  came  because 
my  poor  old  Dad  wrote  for  me  from  London  when  he  was 
beginning  to  fail  and  couldn't  bear  to  see  the  business 
given  up,  not  realising,  somehow,  that  it  had  given  him 
up.  He  was  a  fine  architect,  but  there  is  no  scope  for  one 
now  in  this  neighbourhood.  But  even  if  Lord  Southwater 
does  not  appoint  me,  I  have  another  string  to  my  bow." 

"What  is  that?"  said  Pauline,  emerging  into  the  little 
green  churchyard  where  the  girl  still  sat  stolidly  half- 
asleep  on  her  tombstone. 

"A  man  I  knew  in  London  when  I  was  studying  has 
offered  me  a  partnership  abroad." 

The  waving  trees,  the  green  graves,  the  flowers;  they 
were  all  printed  on  Pauline's  mind  so  to  remain  until  she 
forgot  everything.  She  did  not  want  him  to  go.  With  a 
sudden,  startled  recognition  of  her  own  feeling,  she  knew 
that  England  would  never  be  the  same  with  him  not  in 
it.  Yet  it  seemed  so  ridiculous  that  one  man,  almost  a 
stranger,  could  change  England.  She  pushed  the  thought 
aside. 

"Well,  there's  no  fear  of  that.  You  won't  have  to 
go,"  she  said  lightly. 

"I  want  you  to  see  an  old  cross  by  the  gate,"  he  said, 
leaving  the  subject.  And  they  talked  again;  as  they  had 
done  in  coming,  of  little  things  which  did  not  matter  and 
which  matched  the  pleasant  day. 

At  last  he  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  say!    It  is  nearly  time  to  go,"  he  exclaimed.    "But 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  85 

I  must  show  you  the  Delamere  monument.  It  stands  in 
what  is  now  the  vestry,  so  I  forgot." 

"Fancy  forgetting  what  we  really  came  to  see!"  said 
Pauline,  laughing. 

So  they  passed  the  girl,  apparently  asleep  on  her  stone 
in  the  sunshine,  and  once  more  entered  the  church.  The 
sixteenth-century  Delamere  and  his  wife,  with  sons  and 
daughters  in  a  lessening  row,  were  now  hidden  from  the 
worshippers  by  a  cheap  red  cloth  curtain  patterned  in 
black,  behind  which  cheeky  choir  boys  donned  their  sur- 
plices. 

Pauline  looked  at  the  kneeling  woman  on  the  church 
wall. 

"So  that's  what  it  all  comes  to!" 

Unwin  smiled  at  her. 

"You  know  it  doesn't." 

They  seemed  nearer  together  than  had  yesterday  ap- 
peared possible,  as  they  walked  down  the  aisle  of  the 
church. 

"You've  liked  it?"  said  Unwin,  his  hand  on  the  great 
iron  latch  of  the  door. 

"Yes,"  said  Pauline  .  .  .  and  that  was  all  she  did  say. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to  Ryecroft  Church  some 
afternoon?"  he  asked,  with  his  hand  still  on  the  latch. 
Then  his  tone  changed  and  he  said  sharply — 

"By  Jove!     She's  locked  us  in!" 

' '  Never ! ' '  said  Pauline,  also  tugging  at  the  door  handle. 
But  they  forgot  their  dismay  as  their  fingers  touched.  A* 
warm  thrill  tingled  suddenly  in  every  nerve.  They  drew 
apart,  laughing  and  with  flushed  faces. 

"No  go!"  said  Unwin.  "But  the  girl  is  sure  to  come 
back  in  a  minute  to  fetch  her  tip.  It's  that  she  was  hang- 
ing about  for,  of  course." 

"But  why  did  she  lock  the  door?  That  is  what  I  can't 
understand,"  said  Pauline. 

"Oh,  she'd  wake  up  and  look  into  the  church  and  think 
we  had  sneaked  off  without  giving  her  anything.  This 


86  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

is  rather  a  show  place  in  a  small  way  and  I  daresay  she 
lias  been  caught  like  that  before,"  said  Unwin.  "It 
"would  be  while  we  looked  at  the  monument  in  the  vestry." 

"What?"  said  Pauline.  "Good  gracious!  Then  that 
means  she  won't  come  back!  "We're  here  for  the  night." 

' '  Nonsense !  Somebody  will  miss  us  when  the  char-a- 
~banc  goes  back  to  Wendlebury, "  said  Unwin. 

"But  they  won't  know  where  to  find  us.  Oh  dear! 
just  fancy  what  they'll  all  say!" 

"I  can't,"  said  Unwin. 

"Anyway,  we  shall  be  found  at  the  early  service  in 
the  morning." 

"There  are  no  early  services.  Only  one  a  fortnight," 
said  Unwin.  There  was  a  moment's  blank  silence,  then. 
Pauline  said  lightly:  "How  long  did  that  starving 
champion  go  without  food?  What  man  has  done,  woman 
can  do."  But  the  feeble  jest  fell  like  an  irreverence  on 
the  cloistered  air.  Pauline  suddenly  realised  that  she 
felt  tired  out  and  sat  down  in  a  pew.  Unwin  sat  by 
lier.  The  church  grew  more  and  more  shadowy  as  the 
spring  day  drew  to  a  close. 

The  char-a-banc  and  Chubb 's  cab  stood  on  the  wide, 
gravelled  space  before  the  fine  doorway  of  the  Rural 
Dean,  who  was  ushering  forth  the  Wendlebury  ladies  in 
a  splendid  glow  of  duty  done.  As  parson,  host,  father, 
liusband  and  man-of-the-world,  he  had  given  a  shining 
exemplar  of  what  could  be  achieved  by  goodness,  and  he 
was  about  to  be  rewarded  in  this  present  by  dining  with 
the  Bracegirdles,  where  the  entrees  were  beyond  praise. 
But  it  was  already  a  little  late  and  his  wife  wished  to 
dress,  while  his  daughter  had  already  retired  for  that  pur- 
pose, so  he  was  speeding  the  parting  guests  with  a  sort  of 
jovial  pomposity. 

"Delighted,  my  dear  fellow,  delighted,"  he  said  to  the 
Vicar,  while  alertly  aiding  the  Vicar's  wife  to  enter  the 
char-a-banc.  "Hope  to  see  you  all  again  when  the  roses 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  87 

are  at  their  best.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Delamere.  Good-bye. 
So  pleased!" 

"Are  we  all  here?    Where's  Unwin?"  said  the  Vicar. 

"Pauline!"  murmured  Miss  Amelia. 

"Dear,  dear!"  exclaimed  the  Vicar;  "what  is  to  be 
done  ? ' '  And  he  felt  acutely  uncomfortable,  for  the  Rural 
Dean  had  twice  tactfully  informed  him  of  the  dinner  en- 
gagement. 

"Let  us  search  the  garden,"  suggested  Mary  Carter. 
So  she  and  the  young  son  of  the  house  ran  about  among 
the  waits  and  flower  beds,  to  return  breathless  with  the 
news  that  neither  Pauline  nor  Unwin  were  to  be  found. 

"Disgraceful  behaviour!"  said  Miss  Harriet. 

' '  I  never  cared  much  for  that  girl, ' '  said  Mrs.  Delamere. 

"But  perhaps  it  is  not  the  girl's  fault,"  said  the  Vicar. 

"Almost  always  is,  in  these  cases,"  snapped  the  Vicar's 
wife.  "I  know  at  Sunday-school  treats  ..." 

"If  you  compare  us  .  .  ."  began  Miss  Harriet,  very 
dignified. 

"Oh!  I  don't!  I  don't!"  said  the  Vicar's  wife.  "Only 
I  am  so  bothered.  We  can't  possibly  stay  on  here  any 
longer  when  we  know  they  are  dying  to  get  rid  of  us." 

Then  Miss  Amelia  bent  forward,  rather  flushed,  with  a 
new  suggestion. 

"Why  not  ask  Mrs.  Delamere  to  ride  with  us  and  leave 
Chubb 's  cab  behind,  ready  for  when  they  do  turn  up  ? " 

The  Rural  Dean,  who  had  been  anxiously  listening,  drew 
a  long  breath.  He  thought  Miss  Amelia  a  charming, 
sensible  woman. 

"I  only  wish,"  he  said,  "that  I  could  offer  our  car.  But 
we  are  using  it  this  evening.  Would  you  kindly  do  this, 
Mrs.  Delamere?"  For  that  lady  sat  very  straight,  pre- 
tending not  to  hear  and  looking  very  truculent. 

"Let  them  walk,"  she  said,  wishing  to  show  that  no 
cleric  could  dictate  to  a  sister-in-law  of  Lord  Southwater. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  murmured  the  Rural  Dean, 
mindful  of  a  split  in  the  west  wall  of  his  own  church  that 


88  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

would  need  looking  after  before  long.  But  lie  was  very 
much  bothered  and  glanced  at  his  wife,  who  was  still  being 
tiredly  effusive  in  face  of  all  odds. 

Then  Miss  Amelia  made  an  unexpected  move  that 
changed  the  whole  situation.  She  got  up  in  the  char-a- 
banc,  stumbled  between  knees  to  the  step,  and  announced 
that  if  Chubb  didn't  stay,  she  would,  and  wild  horses 
should  not  induce  her  to  do  otherwise. 

But  Mrs.  Delamere  remained  obdurate,  saying  in  a 
very  grand  tone  to  Chubb:  "Pray  drive  on!" 

Then  it  was  Chubb  who  provided  the  sensation.  All 
his  old  scores  against  Mrs.  Delatfnere  rose  to  his  mind  and 
he  saw  a  chance  of  revenge  with  all  Wendlebury  and  the 
Rural  Deanery  to  back  him  up.  It  was  not  in  human 
nature  to  forgo  the  opportunity.  He  got  down  from  his 
box  and  stood  by  Griselda's  head,  saying  stolidly — 

"I  brefer  to  stop!" 

"What!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Delamere. 

"I  brefer  to  stop,"  he  repeated. 

"Insolent  creature!"  cried  his  fare,  alighting  agitat- 
edly. 

"Thank  you.  So  very  kind  of  you,"  soothed  the  poor 
Vicar,  assisting  her  into  the  char-a-banc. 

The  coachman  flourished  his  whip,  the  hostess  and  host 
smiled  again,  splendid  to  the  last,  the  Wendlebury  ladies 
waved  a  grateful  farewell  through  which  Miss  Amelia 
remarked  in  an  apologetic  tone  to  Mrs.  Delamere — 

"I  do  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  I  had  to  do  it  on 
Pauline's  account.  After  all,  it  will  not  matter  so  much 
what  time  she  comes  home  in  Chubb 's  cab.  One  always 
feels  that  Chubb  is  so  trustworthy." 

But  the  lady  addressed  did  not  reply;  she  wrapped 
herself  in  the  mantle  of  all  the  Delameres  and  remained 
speechless  until  she  arrived  at  her  own  door. 

It  was  almost  dark  now  in  the  church,  and  Pauline 
and  her  companion  sat  in  moody  and  fatigued  silence. 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAE-A-BANC  89 

They  had  just  been  trying  every  door  and  window  for 
the  sixth  time,  but  the  little  upper  windows  with  their 
stone  mullions  could  not  be  passed  through  by  any  human 
being  over  the  age  of  two,  and  Un^in  had  decided  to 
discuss  the  advisability  of  breaking  the  old  stained  East 
window. 

"Then  you  think  more  of  an  old  window  than  you 
do  of  me,"  said  Pauline  sharply. 

"I  do,"  said  Unwin,  which  shows  where  they  had  ar- 
rived. 

"If  no  one  comes,  I  shall  break  the  old  thing  myself," 
said  Pauline,  starting  up. 

He  caught  hold  of  her. 

"No,  you  won't.  And  I  don't  believe  you  could  squeeze 
through  the  mullions  if  you  did." 

She  pulled  herself  away  feeling  nothing  but  annoyance, 
while  Unwin  had  a  strange,  passing  desire  to  hold  her 
roughly  .  .  .  hurt  her.  It  was  gone  in  a  moment,  but 
he  experienced  on  the  top  of  it  a  sort  of  shocked  aston- 
ishment at  having  known  it. 

"You  must  think  of  something;  you  must,"  she  said, 
staring  angrily  at  him  through  the  gloom. 

He  left  her,  and  wandered  round  the  church  very  gloom- 
ily by  himself,  peering  and  poking  everywhere  without 
result.  But  as  he  was  passing  under  the  tower,  where  it 
was  already  dark,  for  the  tenth  time,  he  felt  the  bell  rope 
hit  him  on  the  face.  He  cursed  the  bell  rope,  though  in 
a  sacred  place,  and  saw  stars:  then  he  saw  something  else. 
Illumination  spread  from  those  receding  stars  and  he 
seized  the  bell-rope. 

Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  immediately  rang  out  through 
the  still  church,  and  across  the  country  fields  in  the  twi- 
light. 

"Oh!"  called  Pauline,  running  towards  Unwin;  "why 
on  earth  didn't  you  think  of  that  before?" 

"If  it  comes  to  that  .  .  .  why  didn't  you?" 

Then  they  sat  down  once  more  and  waited.     Nothing 


90  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

happened.  He  rang  again,  and  this  time  there  soon  came 
a  clattering  of  feet  outside,  the  sound  of  people  calling, 
the  turn  of  the  key  in  the  door.  They  emerged,  blinking, 
from  the  pitch  darkness  into  the  spring  night  outside. 
And  there  stood  Chubb,  solid  upon  a  moving  background 
of  village  people  bearing  sticks  and  lanterns. 

"Cab's  waiting,"  he  said. 

"Well!"  gasped  Pauline.  The  two  released  persons 
gazed  at  each  other.  A  long  man  surged  forth  from  the 
crowd  armed  with  a  hay  rake. 

"We  thought  something  had  happened  .  .  .  robbers 
.  .  .  fire  ...  we  didn't  know.  Church-bell's  never  rung 
at  that  time  afore  in  my  life." 

"Nor  in  mine,"  piped  an  old  woman  from  behind  in  a 
print  bonnet. 

"It  was  your  son's  Agnes  locked  'em  in.  They've 
no  business  to  let  that  soft  lass  have  the  key,"  said  the 
first  speaker. 

It  was  all  oddly  mediaeval,  this  scene  round  the  old 
church,  with  the  moving  lanterns  and  the  shapeless  gar- 
ments too  dimly  seen  to  be  very  different  from  those 
worn  long  ago,  and  the  country  faces  and  voices.  An 
old  man  with  a  big  nose  and  bent  rheumatic  limbs  like  a 
figure  from  Teniers  or  Ostade  leered  at  Pauline  out  of 
the  shadows,  holding  his  lantern  high. 

"A  bonny  lass,  he!  he!  A  bonny  lass!  Agnes  were 
none  so  soft.  She  mun  lock  me  in  wi'  this  yere  lass  any 
day.  He!  he!" 

"Chubb!"  cried  Pauline,  clinging  somehow  desper- 
ately in  him  to  the  solid  present.  "How  did  you  come 
here?" 

"Miss  Amelia  told  me  to  stop  behind  till  you  come. 
But  you  didn't  come.  Then  the  chap  in  the  parson's 
stables  and  me,  we  heard  the  bell,  and  he  says  'Some- 
thing's up!'  So  I  says  if  something's  up  you  may  be 
bound  Mr.  Unwin's  in  it.  So  I  comes  along." 

"But  Mrs.  Delamere?"  said  Unwin,  opening  the  cab 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  91 

door.    "I  say,  Miss  "Westcott,  hadn't  you  better  get  in?" 

"Mrs.  Delamere,"  replied  Chubb,  "was  all  for  leaving 
you.  But  Miss  Amelia  she  ups  and  she  says,  either  she 
stops  or  I  does.  And  Mrs.  Delamere  says  in  her  haughty 
way  like :  '  Drive  on ! '  So  then  I  puts  in  my  word.  '  I 
brefer  to  stop,'  I  says;  and  nothing  wouldn't  make  me 
say  no  other.  'I  brefer  to  stop,'  I  says." 

"Well!"  chuckled  the  old  man  again,  "here's  a  lot  of 
fuss  about  a  young  chap  having  a  bit  of  a  lark  ...  if 
it  was  me  going  to  spend  the  night  in  our  old  church  with 
a  bonny  lass  like  her,  I  shouldn't  trouble  ..." 

"Get  in,"  commanded  Unwin,  propelling  Pauline 
through  the  cab  door. 

"But  I  can't  think  how  Miss  Amelia  dared  do  it," 
said  she,  as  he  followed  her  in  after  bestowing  gratuities. 
"Tackle  Mrs.  Delamere,  I  mean.  It's  like  a  mouse  going 
for  a  large,  green-eyed  cat ! ' ' 

Chubb,  turning  the  door-handle,  was  also  able  to  an- 
swer this  question. 

"I  heard  her  say  I  was  a  sort  of  sign  everything  was 
all  proper,"  he  remarked.  "She  gave  out  as  I  shouldn't 
stand  any  larky  goings  on  in  my  cab,  nor  shouldn't  I." 

"Chaperon,  in  fact,"  said  IT  -.'in.  "But,  surely, 
Chubb,  she  was  thinking  of  Grisel  Venus  and  a  stock- 
broker might  go  to  the  moon  under  Jier  wing  in  perfect 
propriety.  "We  all  know  that." 

Just  then  Griselda  gave  a  careless  flick  of  her  tail  as 
one  who  says,  "I  am  good,  I  don't  know  why."  Chubb  got 
on  the  box-seat,  the  long  man  waved  his  rake,  and  the 
senile  spark  held  high  his  lantern,  cackling  out,  "If  I  had 
nobbut  an  old  shoe  and  a  bit  o'  rice,  he!  he!" 

Unwin  and  Pauline  beamed  from  the  side  windows, 
laughing,  excited,  though  they  did  not  realise  why  they 
felt  that  odd  thrill  of  excited  pleasure. 

"Good-bye!    Good-bye!" 

And  the  people,  moving  about  between  the  flowery 
grasses,  called  back:  "Good-bye!  Good  luck!" 


92  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

For  they  too  felt  as  if  they  had  just  seen  youth  and 
hope  go  by  with  a  sort  of  wedding  jollity. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  association  of  ideas  which  made 
Unwin  take  Pauline's  hand  in  his  and  ask,  laughing — 

"I  say,  hasn't  it  been  a  joke?" 

"But  poor  Miss  Amelia!" 

"And  the  Vicar!  Never  mind,  we'll  go  round  to-mor- 
row and  make  love  to  Miss  Amelia.  She  has  been  an  old 
dear." 

The  "we"  was  perhaps  a  little  intoxicating.  He  pressed 
the  supple  fingers  closer. 

"Do  you  know,  the  first  thing  I  noticed  about  you  was 
your  hands  .  .  .  your  pretty  hands  ..." 

Pauline  withdrew  the  one  he  was  holding  and  moved 
away. 

"Of  course  you'll  have  to  go  round  and  explain  to  the 
Vicar." 

After  which  nothing  of  import  was  said  until  they 
reached  Aunt  Dickson's  door,  where  they  parted  lightly 
under  the  chaperonage  of  Chubb. 

Aunt  Dickson  looked  up  concerned  as  Pauline  entered 
the  room. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  thankful  you  are  safely  back.  I  have  had 
Miss  Amelia  and  Mrs.  Delamere  in.  What  has  happened  ? ' ' 

Pauline  sat  down  and  related  her  tale.  It  was  less 
vivid  than  usual  and  Aunt  Dickson  noticed  the  difference 
with  increasing  dismay.  Surely,  she  thought,  the  girl  is 
not  falling  in  love  with  young  Unwin.  Aloud?  she  said 
impulsively — 

"  I  'd  rather  it  had  been  any  one  else ! ' ' 

"Why?" 

"Because  ..."  Aunt  Dickson  hesitated.  "Well,  I 
don't  want  you  to  have  the  job  of  reforming^  drunkard." 

"I  shall  not  have  the  chance,"  said  Pauline.  "And 
he  is  not  a  drunkard.  The  bare  term  in  connection  with 
Mr.  Unwin  is  ridiculous.  It  is  only  »that  he  ...  some- 
times .  ." 


LADIES  IN  A  CHAR-A-BANC  93 

She  looked  across  more  wistfully  than  she  knew,  and 
Aunt  Dickson's  "big  face  grew  very  grave  and  sad,  with  a 
deep  sadness  and  gravity  such  as  was  seldom  seen  in  it. 

"Pauline,"  she  said,  speaking  with  a  visible  effort,  "I 
married  a  man  like  that,  thinking  I  was  going  to  help 
him.  He  threw  me  downstairs  in  one  of  his  drunken  fits 
and  that  is  why  I  am  like  this." 

"Aunt  Dickson!  Oh!  I  never  knew.  I  never  knew," 
said  Pauline,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Nobody  knows.  He  was  never  a  notorious  drunkard. 
But  I  love  you  like  my  own  daughter  so  I  have  told 
you." 

Pauline  slipped  across  the  hearth  and  hid  her  face  in 
Aunt  Dickson's  lap,  kissing  the  veined  old  hands.  She 
could  not  say  anything.  At  last  she  lifted  up  her  head. 

"To  think  God  lets  such  things  happen  to  people  like 
you!"  she  said,  brushing  away  fierce,  hot  tears. 

But  Aunt  Dickson  was  always  ready  to  give  her  Maker 
credit  for  kindness  and  common  sense. 

"I  don't  believe  the  Lord  had  much  to  do  with  it," 
she  answered.  "I  think  it  was  more  likely  port  wine 
after  whooping  cough  at  fifteen  and  an  over-indulgent 
mother.  But  we  won't  speak  of  it  any  more,  Pauline." 
She  paused.  "And  so  Mrs.  Carter  wore  her  plum  col- 
our? I  always  think  she  looks  well  in  that." 

Thus  the  door  closed  again  upon  that  locked  chamber 
of  Aunt  Dickson's  heart  which  she  had  painfully  forced 
open  for  a  moment  out  of  love  for  Pauline,  and  they 
talked  a  little  of  ordinary  simple  matters. 

But  no  sooner  was  Pauline  safely  in  her  bedroom  alone 
with  her  own  urging,  disturbing  thoughts  at  last,  when 
Eva  knocked  at  the  door. 

"The  Missus  has  sent  you  a  glass  of  hot  milk.  I'm 
to  see  you  take  it." 

Pauline  sighed  and  opened  the  door,  and  Eva  entered 
briskly. 

"Well!    You  do  look  done  up,"  she  remarked. 


94  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"I  am  very  tired,"  said  Pauline.  "I  shall  go  straight 
to  bed." 

But  Eva  did  not  retire. 

"Look  here,"  she  said;  "you  take  it  all  too  serious. 
Nobody '11  think  a  penny  the  worse  of  you,  Miss.  I'm 
sure  I  don't!" 

"That's  nice  of  you/'  said  Pauline,  smiling. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  Miss,"  said  Eva.  "Us  Martins  al- 
ways was  oners  for  romanch.  We  don't  believe  in  tittle- 
tattling  about  sweethearts  and  spoiling  a  girl's  game.  I 
shall  ever  remember  the  clout  over  the  ear  my  poor 
Mother  gave  our  Bill  for  saying  out  before  everybody 
at  tea,  'Who  kissed  Cock  Robin?'  meaning  Uncle  Robin 
that  afterwards  married  Aunt  Susan,  and  now  they  have 
two  pairs  of  twins  and  an  odd  boy  with  a  squint  in  his 
left  eye."  She  sighed.  "Ay,  we  owe  a  lot  to  my  poor 
Mother." 

What  could  Pauline  say  in  the  face  of  that?  Nothing. 
She  sat  down  and  drank  the  hot  milk,  responding  suit- 
ably to  questions  about  the  tea,  the  garden,  the  ladies' 
dresses  and  the  attitude  of  Chubb. 


DELIA  S   PARTY 

AUNT  DICKSON  beamed  from  her  window  like  a  jolly 
red  sun  on  a  wintry  morning,  for  she  had  found  a 
new  joy  in  life.  To  the  tortoise  bell  which  regulated  the 
life  of  the  house  she  had  now  added  a  portable  telephone 
instrument  which  enabled  her  to  keep  a  finger,  as  it  were, 
on  the  pulse  of  all  Wendlebury  Town.  True,  the  Misses 
Pritchard  and  other  ladies  were  not  "on,"  but  it  was, 
splendid  to  hear  once  more  the  muffled  voice  of  Binns. 
the  fishmonger  and  to  order,  without  an  intermediary, 
the  joint  for  Sunday's  dinner.  She  stocked  the  larder 
to  overflowing  that  morning  with  an  excited,  rollicking 
sense  of  being  "in  it"  again  which  left  her  breathless  and 
satisfied.  She  experienced  that  satisfaction  in  having 
shopped  well  which  is  a  perverse  survival  of  a  time  when 
women  depended-  on  their  own  exertions  for  the  provision- 
ing of  the  household. 

So,  deeply  feeling  she  had  baked  and  spun,  though 
knowing  otherwise,  Aunt  Dickson  sat  back  in  her  great 
chair  and  watched  the  passers-by.  Pauline  leaned  en- 
grossed over  her  translating.  The  scented  flowery  silence 
was  accentuated  by  the  light  rush  and  crackle  of  a  wood 
fire  which  gave  out  cheerfulness  without  too  much  heat. 
Then — Cling!  and  Aunt  Dickson 's  ear  was  at  the  receiver. 

"It  is  for  you,  Pauline.  Mr.  Unwin?  Yes.  So  nice 
having  the  telephone." 

She  gave  up  the  receiver;  and  Pauline  felt  vividly  con- 
scious of  the  big,  inert  figure,  sitting  there  in  the  sun- 
light. 

"Oh!  Not  at  all  tired,  thank  you.  No:  I'm  afraid  I 

95 


9<5  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

can't  .  .  .  Very  busy  just  now.  What  a  lovely  day! 
Good-bye!" 

She  put  back  the  receiver  and  turned  to  Aunt  Dickson. 

"He  wanted  me  to  cycle  out  with  him  to  Ryeford 
Magna.  We'd  been  talking  about  the  church  there.  I 
said  I  couldn't  find  time." 

"I'm  glad,  Pauline." 

"Oh,  but — that's  only  me.  I  do  so  wish  I  could  help 
him." 

Aunt  Dickson  shook  her  head  and  said  nothing,  while 
Pauline  went  back  to  her  book;  for  she  also,  looking  at 
that  maimed  woman,  felt  there  was  nothing  to  say.  But 
she  found  it  very  difficult  to  keep  her  mind  on  her  work, 
and  her  delicate,  longish  face  with  the  pointed  chin, 
lovely  mouth  and  dark  eyes,  had  a  brooding  look,  elu- 
sive; the  will-o'-the-wisp  again  emerging.  The  will-o'-the- 
wisp  that  would  light  the  pork-butcher's  shop. 

Unwin  hung  up  the  receiver  and  walked  to  the  window 
of  his  private  office  where  he  stared  out  for  some  time 
at  a  cat  on  the  next  roof.  So  that  was  it,  was  it?  He 
might  as  well  know  before  things  went  any  further. 
After  all,  there  were  moments  when  he  disliked  her; 
in  the  church,  for  instance,  when  he  was  wandering  about 
in  the  dark  and  banging  his  eye  with  a  bellrope.  It  was 
foolish  to  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  who  aggravated  you  so; 
no  foundation  for  a  happy  married  life  there. 

Then  his  reflections  abruptly  took  a  fresh  turn  and  a 
beautiful  light,  like  sudden  sunshine,  relieved  their  dull- 
ness. Of  course,  the  old  woman  was  in  the  room.  No 
doubt  Pauline  had  been  shy  and  did  not  like  to  make  an 
appointment  under  the  nose  of  Aunt  Dickson. 

Whistling,  he  sat  down  to  his  table  and  began  to  jot 
down  what  ought  to  be  done  in  the  little  church  where 
he  and  Pauline  had  been  imprisoned.  It  would  all  help 
when  Lord  Southwater  went  over  the  place  with  him,  and 
would  add,  no  doubt,  to  the  favourable  opinion  which 


DELIA'S  PARTY  97 

that  excellent  peer  already  entertained  of  his  abilities. 
After  a  while,  he  began  to  chuckle  as  he  sketched. 
Chubb  .  .  .  the  crowd  outside  .  .  .  What  a  lark  that  all 
was,  to  be  sure!  And  the  ride  home — his  pencil  ceased 
moving1 — the  ride  home.  But  he  could  not  recover  what 
he  had  felt  in  holding  her  slim  fingers,  and  his  one  thought 
was  to  be  near  her  again. 

In  consequence  of  this,  he  went  that  same  evening  to 
call  upon  Delia  Lambert.  But  Pauline  would  have  been 
astonished  and  even  pained  had  she  known  that  her  tele- 
phone message  would  produce  this  effect.  For  there  is 
one  mystery  locked  away  from  the  female  sex ;  no  girl  will 
ever  really  understand  that  a  man's  love  for  a  woman 
whom  he  can't  see,  will  send  him  to  see  another  whom  he 
does  not  love.  Thus  while  Pauline  avoided  promiscuous 
male  society  and  remained  intolerant  of  the  new  curate, 
Unwin  entered  a  confectioner's  shop,  purchased  a  box  of 
chocolates  and  made  his  way  with  a  certain  eagerness  to 
the  little  house  near  the  Bowling  Green  Inn,  telling  him- 
self that  it  was  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  poor  Delamere. 

In  answer  to  his  knock,  the  dressmaker-landlady  opened 
the  door,  munching,  with  fingers  pressed  upon  her  mouth 
to  support  her  new  false  teeth.  ' '  .'Souse !  Good  evening, 
Mr.  Unwin." 

"Is  Miss  Lambert  at  home?"  said  Unwin,  realising  the 
curiosity  in  the  woman's  eyes  with  a  faint  feeling  of  em- 
barrassment. 

' '  She  is  not  open  to  professional  engagements  this  even- 
ing. I  presume  it  is  the  fortune-telling?" 

"N-no,"  said  Unwin.  Then  he  heard  with  relief  Delia 
Lambert's  voice  from  the  interior.  "That  you,  Mr.  Un- 
win? Oh,  come  in!  Do  come  in." 

"Of  course  ...  I  was  not  aware  .  .  .  Any  personal 
friend,"  murmured  the  dressmaker,  ushering  Unwin  into 
the  room. 

Delia  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  the  dressmaker 


98  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

had  evidently  just  risen  from  a  seat  on  her  right  hand. 
A  bunch  of  white  lilac  was  surrounded  by  the  pink  and 
green  and  silver  of  salmon  and  cucumber,  by  the  pale  gold 
of  delicately  roasted  chicken,  by  the  heaped  rose  of  early 
strawberries,  by  a  jar  of  foie  gras.  Unwin  remembered 
his  last  interview  and  felt  naturally  astonished,  though 
endeavouring  to  concentrate  his  mind  upon  the  weather. 

"Yes,  delightful,"  said  Delia  staidly;  then  her  lips 
twitched  and  she  began  to  laugh.  "It's  no  good,  Mr. 
Unwin.  You  behave  so  perfectly,  but  even  you  are  unable 
to  ignore  such  a  banquet  in  a  room  twelve  feet  by  ten. 
Now,  honestly,  tell  me  what  you  think  it  all  means  ?  And 
sit  down,  Miss  "Walker.  Go  ?  Of  course  you  can 't  go.  No 
lady  ever  left  a  party  in  the  middle ;  and  besides,  I  want 
you.  And  Mr.  Unwin  is  to  have  this  chair  on  my  left. 
-Now  then!  What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

As  she  leaned  forward  he  saw  that  her  face  was  even 
more  lined  than  he  had  thought,  yet  in  spite  of  high  cheek 
bones,  blunt  nose  and  restless  eyes,  it  remained  oddly  at- 
tractive. 

"What  do  I  think?"  he  said,  smiling.  "Why,  that 
you  and  Miss  Walker  are  doing  yourselves  uncommonly 
well." 

"We're  having  a  party,"  said  Delia.  "Miss  Walker  has 
been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  wanted  to  try  and  return  a  little, 
though  one  can  never  return  a  kindness." 

"No."  Unwin  too  smiled  at  the  little  woman  opposite. 
"That's  a  good  thing  we  have  to  keep." 

"Not  at  all  ...  'scuse  .  .  .  only  mentioning  the  palm- 
istry here  and  there,"  said  Miss  Walker. 

"But  Mr.  Unwin  still  feels  uneasy,"  mocked  Delia. 
"He  is  an  upright,  respectable  citizen  who  has  never 
known  the  adventurous  joy  of  buying  what  he  can  see  no 
means  of  paying  for,  and  he  fears  we  shall  get  into  trouble, 
Miss  Walker." 

"I'm  sure  I  never  owed  a  penny.  Father's  guiding 
principle,"  murmured  Miss  Walker,  rather  annoyed. 


DELIA'S  PARTY  9& 

"I  know  what  happened,"  said  Unwin  soothingly. 
"Miss  Lambert  rubbed  her  crystal  like  a  person  in  a 
fairy  tale  and  the  banquet  appeared.  It  does  taste  a  bit 
of  brimstone,  doesn't  it,  Miss  Walker?" 

"Perhaps,  Miss  Lambert,"  said  the  dressmaker,  drawing 
herself  up,  "it  would  be  better  to  inform  Mr.  Unwin  that 
you  have  had  a  legacy  left  you,  and  that  these  are  the — 
er — proceeds. ' ' 

"That's  it,"  said  Delia.  "My  grandfather  has  died 
and  cut  me  off  with  fifty  pounds  for  mourning  and  an 
insult.  So  I  am  going  to  have  some  real  fun  out  of  it, 
just  to  spite  him." 

"After  all,  fifty  pounds  is  a  very  nice  sum,"  said  the 
dressmaker,  a  little  wistfully.  "It  takes  a  lot  of  earning, 
especially  when  you  begin  to  get  on  in  life  like  me." 

"You  getting  on!  You  haven't  a  grey  hair,"  said  Delia, 
with  careless  good-nature.  "Ask  the  local  preacher  with 
the  bump  over  his  right  eye  what  he  thinks?" 

"Past  all  that,"  said  the  dressmaker,  but  she  gave  a 
giggle  reminiscent  of  her  lost  youth. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Unwin  gallantly.  "A  woman  is  as 
old  as  she  looks,  you  know." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Walker,  "perhaps  you  are  right. 
"There's  Mrs.  Delamere  now  ...  I  was  working  for  her 
yesterday  .  .  .  how  she  wears!  But  she  was  a  good  deal 
bothered  about  Lord  Southwater." 

"Why?"  said  Unwin  rather  eagerly. 

"He  is  ill  in  bed  with — 'scuse!  a  bad  attack  of  bron- 
chitis." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Unwin.  But  a  sudden, 
sense  of  lightness  and  relief  made  him  realise  that  he  was 
glad  to  hear  it,  and  that  a  little  anxiety  in  regard  to  Lord 
Southwater 's  silence  had  gradually  been  creeping  across 
the  clear  horizon  of  the  future.  It  was  not  definite  enough 
to  be  called  a  fear,  but  the  possibility  of  fear  had  been 
there.  Now  all  was  explained,  and  he  could  await  the  re- 
covery of  the  invalid  with  an  easy  mind. 


100  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

So  Unwin's  spirits  went  up  with  a  bound  and  the  little 
party  became  a  very  merry  one,  while  the  little  dress- 
maker began  to  feel  that  she  was  still  a  fascinating 
woman,  though  undoubtedly  mature,  and  that  there  was 
something  about  her  which  might  have  turned  the  heads 
of  all  Wendlebury,  had  she  developed  it  earlier  in  life. 
At  cigarettes,  however,  she  drew  the  line,  retiring  to  over- 
sew a  bodice  and  to  think  of  a  Sunday-school  treat  long 
ago,  when  a  gentleman  rather  like  Unwin  had  said  to  her : 
"You  resemble  a  fairy  in  that  white  frock."  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  the  gentleman  was  no  more  like  Unwin  than 
Miss  Walker  was  like  a  fairy;  it  was  just  one  of  those 
dreams  given  to  women  by  a  heavenly  kindness  which  has 
regard  to  their  deep  capacity  for  love,  and  will  not  let 
them  know  themselves  as  they  are. 

When  she  had  gone,  Unwin  and  Delia  sat  down  on 
either  side  of  the  fire. 

"Well,"  said  Delia,  putting  her  feet  on  the  fender,  "I 
must  own  it  is  nice  to  feel  once  more  that  life  is  a  lark  to 
somebody. ' ' 

"I  didn't  feel  it  when  I  came  in,"  said  Unwin.  "The 
party  has  cheered  me  up  too." 

"Has  it?"  said  Delia,  watching  the  smoke  go  upwards 
from  her  cigarette.  "Sometimes  I  feel  like  the  man  who 
committed  suicide  because  life  was  all  buttoning  and  un- 
buttoning. It  seems  sometimes  all  getting  down-hearted 
and  cheering  up  again.  But  I  have  been  ill  and  miser- 
able." 

"You're  better  now?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes.  I  shall  keep  quiet  here  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  then  I  shall  be  all  right.  The  air  is  so  lovely ; 
and  I  mean  to  spend  part  of  the  fifty  pounds  on  Chubb 's 
cab,  as  I  can't  walk  far." 

"That  will  do  you  good,"  said  Unwin.  Then  he  added: 
"I  say,  isn't  it  queer  that  I  should  have  chanced  to  be 
with  poor  Delamere  at  the  last,  and  now  I  appear  likely 


DELIA'S  PARTY  101 

to  get  this  appointment  with  Lord  Southwater?  How 
his  pride  would  be  injured  if  he  knew  the  whole  story. ' ' 

"Well,  he  never  will  know  it.  We  are  neither  of  us 
likely  to  go  back  on  a  dead  man  who  can't  speak  for  him- 
self," said  Delia.  "But  I  am  glad  you  are  getting  the 
job.  After  what  you  did  for  one  brother,  it  is  only  just 
that  you  should  derive  some  benefit  from  the  other." 

"Oh,  I  did  very  little.  But  Southwater  would  never 
give  me  the  post  if  he  knew.  His  pride  would  be  con- 
stantly galled  by  seeing  me,"  said  Unwin. 

"Are  you  afraid  I  shall  tell?"  said  Delia,  looking 
straight  at  him.  "I  promise  you  I  won't,  if  that  eases 
your  mind." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Unwin. 

Then  they  talked  in  low  voices  of  the  dead  man,  and 
about  eleven  o  'clock  Unwin  departed.  It  was  a  fine,  starry 
night,  and  he  strolled  past  Pauline's  house,  though  it  was 
not  on  his  way  home.  As  he  went  by,  a  light  shone  out 
from  the  upper  storey,  and  he  felt  that  stirring  of  the 
heart  which  all  lovers  know  beneath  their  lady's  window, 
which  is  as  commonplace  as  the  chirping  of  a  sparrow 
to  its  mate,  and  as  deeply  a  part  of  our  common  life. 

Chubb  stood  in  his  kitchen  waiting  for  Mrs.  Chubb  to 
bring  his  best  hat,  while  Griselda  flicked  her  tail  medi- 
tatively before  the  open  door.  The  sound  of  the  cabman's 
heavy  voice  came  out  to  her,  blustering,  angry,  finally  a 
sort  of  bellow.  But  she  only  flicked  her  tail :  for,  friendly 
or  furious,  he  was  still  her  Chubb. 

Mrs.  Chubb,  within,  wore  an  expression  which  denoted 
the  same  sentiments,  but  there  remained  elsewhere  about 
her  mental  attitude  an  impalpable  something  which  could 
not  be  defined,  but  which  was  not  in  Griselda 's. 

"You  great  silly!"  shouted  Chubb.  "You  can't  have 
eaten  my  best  hat!  And  this  house  isn't  Buckinerm  Pal- 
ace. Find  it." 

"I  have  looked,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  screwing  up  her 


102  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

mouth.  "I  can't  find  it.  You  don't  want  it  as  bad  as  all 
that,  until  Sunday  comes." 

"I  want  it  now  and  I'll  have  it,"  retorted  Chubb.  "But 
things  has  got  to  a  pretty  pass  in  this  house — me  having 
to  find  my  own  things  myself!" 

He  lumbered  up  the  stairs,  but  Mrs.  Chubb  remained 
at  the  bottom,  opening  and  shutting  her  mouth  like  a 
fish;  her  face  was  white  but  desperate.  It  did  indeed 
seem  to  her  a  terrible  thing  that  she  should  be  driven  to 
allow  Chubb  to  fetch  his  own  best  hat.  In  a  moment  he 
emerged  from  the  bedroom  bearing  the  hat. 

' '  It  was  under  the  bed  all  the  time ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Chubb  turned  away  with  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"What  time  shall  you  be  back?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Lambert  said  about  a  couple  of  hours." 

"It's  every  day  this  week." 

"Yes.  She's  a  lady  now.  She  knows  how  to  tip  and 
to  treat  a  man,"  said  Chubb. 

"I  dessay, "  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  then  opened  her  mouth, 
closed  it  again  and  thought  better.  "I  suppose  some  quiet 
country  road.  That  was  what  she  told  you  last  time, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Yes.  I  think  I  shall  take  her  round  Narcross  and 
home  by  Ryeford.  Bluebells  is  coming  out  in  Narcross 
woods." 

He  got  on  his  box  as  he  spoke  and  Mrs.  Chubb  ex- 
changed a  glance  with  Griselda.  They  knew,  they  knew! 
The  hussy! 

"I  dessay  you  tell  her  all  about  the  neighbourhood," 
said  Mrs.  Chubb  innocently.  "She'll  be  asking  you  ques- 
tions about  things,  Chubby.  You're  such  a  clever  man!" 

"Ay;  I  tell  her  the  points  of  interest  ...  I  tell  her 
the  points  of  interest,"  said  Chubb.  "Gee-up!" 

Griselda  flicked  her  tail  in  mute  sympathy  as  she  de- 
murely trotted  on  and  Mrs.  Chubb  returned  to  the  house, 
where  she  stood  for  a  long  time  quite  still  by  the  window, 
listening  to  the  sound  of  Griselda 's  footsteps  until  they 


DELIA'S  PARTY  103 

died  away.  A  silvery  silence  hung  over  the  little  town, 
the  grey  clouds  being  illuminated  by  a  distant  sunlight, 
high  up,  which  did  not  shine  through  them.  Then  a  cart 
rattled  by  and  Mrs.  Chubb,  seemingly  roused  to  some  des- 
perate activity,  put  on  her  jacket  and  hat  and  fled  through 
by-ways  to  the  Ryecroft  Road.  She  was  unaccustomed  to 
pedestrian  exercise  and  began  to  pant  by  the  time  she 
emerged  upon  the  green  fields,  but  that  did  not  deter  her 
for  more  than  the  few  moments  required  to  gather  strength 
and  speed  on  again. 

At  last  she  heard  the  familiar  clop !  clop !  of  Griselda 
in  the  distance  and  instantly  slipped  behind  a  hedge.  The 
field  chanced  to  be  that  in  which  the  scarecrow  waved 
warning  arms,  and  Mrs.  Chubb  was  so  excited  that  she 
thought  it  was  the  farmer  ordering  her  away,  but  she 
called  back  desperately  over  her  shoulder:  "You  may 
shout  and  wave  until  you  bust  yourself,  but  I  ivttl  see 
what's  going  on." 

She  crouched  down  as  the  cab  came  nearer — her  view 
was  interrupted  by  the  twigs.  She  cautiously  peered 
above  the  hedge,  saw  Delia  in  the  cab,  and  instantly  dis- 
appeared again. 

' '  Chubb ! ' '  called  Delia  excitedly  from  the  road.  ' '  Stop ! 
Stop!  A  tramp  has  just  fallen  down  behind  that  hedge!" 

Mrs.  Chubb  heard  in  a  whirlwind  of  fury  and  apprehen- 
sion. A  tramp !  But  if  Chubb  found  her  there,  what  would 
he  do  to  her?  He  would  never  forgive  her  in  this  world. 

Her  thoughts  ran  round  and  round  like  rats  in  a  trap, 
as  she  crouched  in  the  ditch  among  dead  leaves  that  rat- 
tled. Dead  leaves  .  .  .  dead  leaves  .  .  .  babes  in  the 
wood.  .  .  .  An  inspiration  came  to  her. 

Delia  ran  across  the  road  to  look  over  the  hedge,  and 
Chubb  followed  more  slowly.  Mrs.  Chubb,  through  a  chink 
in  her  heap  of  leaves,  saw  their  heads  close  together  as 
they  peered  over,  and  she  ground  her  teeth  in  impotent 
indignation.  How  handsome  her  Chubb  looked!  What  a 
splendid  figure  of  a  man.  No  wonder  .  .  . 


104  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Well!"  said  Delia,  drawing  back.  "This  is  queer.  I 
most  certainly  saw  a  hat. ' ' 

"It's  been  fancy,"  said  Chubb,  turning  away. 

Mrs.  Chubb,  however,  was  trembling  to  such  an  extent 
that  the  sparse  leaves  ceased  to  cover  her,  and  Delia 
exclaimed  again — 

"I  am  certain  it  is  a  tramp.    I  see  an  old  boot!" 

"Old  boots  is  common  enough,"  grunted  Chubb,  going 
back  to  his  cab. 

"But  it  waggled,"  protested  Delia,  hurrying  along  the 
road  under  the  shadow  of  the  hedge. 

"Fancy, "said  Chubb. 

"I'm  sure  I  saw  a  boot,"  said  Delia.  "You  could  fancy 
a  face,  perhaps,  but  not  a  boot." 

"Women  can  fancy  anything.  Get  in,  Mum,"  said 
Chubb.  "Gee-up!" 

And  Mrs.  Chubb,  wet  through  from  the  mud  in  the 
ditch,  exhausted  after  her  long  walk,  and  almost  fainting 
with  nervous  agitation,  yet  had  a  moment  of  relief  so  in- 
tense that  it  seemed  almost  like  beatitude  as  she  heard  the 
cab  roll  away  down  the  Ryeford  Road. 

After  a  few  moments  she  got  up,  brushed  off  as  much 
mud  as  possible,  and  plodded  by  devious  ways  home  to  a 
situation  which,  though  less  terrible  than  it  might  have 
been,  was  still  unparalleled  in  the  annals  of  the  Chubbs. 
Mr.  Chubb  was  reduced,  after  waiting  a  whole  half-hour, 
to  the  horrible  necessity  of  getting  his  own  tea  ready. 
His  back,  as  Mrs.  Chubb  passed  the  window,  expressed 
something  of  what  he  felt  about  that.  Cautiously,  gently 
she  opened  the  door. 

"Chubby!"  she  bleated. 

Then  he  turned.  Then  the  pent-up  storm  burst.  He 
prided  himself  on  never  laying  a  finger  on  a  woman,  and 
nobly  he  kept  to  that  resolution  now.  When  his  expres- 
sions of  just  anger  became  reproduceable  he  was  shout- 
ing like  some  overwhelming  Neptune  with  a  piece  of  smok- 
ing toast  on  his  trident. 


DELIA'S  PARTY  105 

"Out!    Out  a -walking!    When  I  wanted  my  tea!" 

' '  I  'm  very  sorry,  Chubb, ' '  said  she,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"Then  what  was  you  doing?  What  excuse  have  you  to 
make?" 

"I  haven't  none,"  said  she  dully,  staring  at  her  muddy 
boots.  "I — I  wanted  a  bit  of  fresh  air." 

"And  this,"  said  Chubb,  addressing  the  universe,  "is 
what  I  get  for  being  a  faithful  married  husband  twenty 
year!  No  wonder  marrying 's  going  out  o'  fashion." 

Mrs.  Chubb  made  no  reply.  She  could,  as  she  exhaust- 
edly  reflected,  manage  a  day's  washing  against  anybody, 
but  sleuth-hunting  was  too  much  for  her. 

Next  morning,  still  feeling  the  effects  of  this  novel  ex- 
perience, she  went  to  clean  at  the  house  where  Delia  Lam- 
bert lodged,  and,  being  late,  encountered  the  little  dress- 
maker just  starting  forth  with  fashion  'papers  and  bag 
upon  the  day's  work.  Often  and  often  Mrs.  Chubb  had 
paused  on  the  way,  determining  not  to  come,  and  then 
urged  forward  by  that  curiosity  of  jealousy  which  drives 
cleverer  people  than  the  cabman's  wife  into  much  more 
distasteful  actions  than  cleaning  out  the  sitting-room  of 
the  hated  rival. 

"Then,"  said  the  dressmaker,  "you'll  do  the  sitting- 
room  while  Miss  Lambert  is  out  driving  this  afternoon?" 

Mrs.  Chubb  opened  her  mouth,  closed  it,  swallowed, 
and  answered,  "Yes." 

"It's  a  real  good  job  for  Chubb,"  pursued  the  dress- 
maker, conscious  of  having  introduced  a  valuable  custo- 
mer. "Miss  Lambert  is  generous  with  her  money  when 
she  has  any.  I've  no  doubt  she  behaves  well  to  him." 

"Neither  have  I,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  screwing  her  lips 
tight  and  walking  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  COUNTRY  WALK 

A  YOUNG  man  in  Wendlebury  who  desires  to  see  a 
young  woman  has  but  to  place  himself  near  the  little 
table  in  the  confectioner's  window  and  the  chance  will 
come.  So — the  shop  being  a  busy  one  and  the  few  tables 
in  request,  which  does  not  allow  of  their  continued  occu- 
pation by  non-consumers — it  is  simply  a  question  whether 
love  or  digestion  first  gives  out.  Unwin's  excellent  inter- 
nal organs  had  already  begun  slightly  to  feel  the  strain 
of  cheese-cakes,  bath-buns  and  other  solid  dainties  com- 
pounded here  from  recipes  dating  back  to  eighteen  fifty, 
when  he  at  last  espied  Pauline  by  the  counter  ordering 
that  almond  pound  cake  for  which  the  shop  remained 
justly  famous. 

It  was  already  about  six  o'clock,  but  he  jumped  up 
from  his  seat  and  hurried  round  a  fragrant  pile  of  spicy, 
sugary  buns,  exclaiming  with  fervour — 

"Do  come  and  take  pity  on  my  loneliness.  I  am  just 
going  to  begin  and  I  do  so  hate  having  tea  alone." 

Pauline  hesitated,  looking  at  a  crisp  mound  of  Ladies' 
Fingers,  but  seeing  Aunt  Dickson's  face  as  it  was  that 
evening  after  the  ride  home  in  Chubb 's  cab  from  Marcross 
Church.  Poor  Aunt  Dickson  .  .  .  how  little  any  one 
guessed  that  her  life  held  such  a  tragedy.  .  .  . 

"Do  come,"  urged  Unwin. 

Then  Pauline  looked  at  him  intently. 

And  as  she  looked,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  him 
if  he  asked  her.  Her  emotions  so  long  latent  and  con- 
trolled suddenly  burst  forth  into  a  great  flower  of  hope 

106 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  107 

and  desire.  She  felt  the  perfume  of  it  surround  them 
both  as  she  walked  towards  the  table.  Her  love  seemed 
strong  enough  to  carry  both  of  them  up  into  the  heavens, 
past  all  weakness  and  all  sin.  But  it  left  her  also  ready 
to  suffer  ...  to  suffer  terribly  ...  to  almost  welcome 
agony  if  it  were  helping  him. 

The  little  cake-scented  shop  swam  in  a  sort  of  haze;  it 
was  a  wonderful  moment  in  her  life  .  .  .  unforget- 
table .  .  . 

Then  the  moment  passed  and  she  heard  herself  saying 
in  a  high,  trembling  voice  which  she  scarcely  recognised — 

"Yes,  I  should  like  some  tea." 

But  they  both  knew  that  tea-time  had  long  gone  past 
and  the  shopwoman  also  knew  it;  so  there  was  quite  a 
glow  of  young  romance  about  the  tray  which  she  presently 
set  before  them.  She  had  added  a  little  dish  of  melting, 
delicious  pink-and-white  sugar  biscuits  called  Lovers' 
Kisses,  such  as  were  generally  supplied  only  at  dances  and 
weddings  and  such-like  festivals,  because  she  was  all  un- 
consciously a  poet — though  she  was  fat  and  tight-busted 
and  rosy-cheeked — and  had  a  beautiful  desire  to  pay  trib- 
ute to  young  love. 

Both  Unwin  and  Pauline  felt  the  charm  of  the  narrow 
little  place  where  the  rich  plenty  of  butter  and  cream  and 
eggs  from  the  green  fields  round  Wendlebury  had  been 
transformed  into  things  delicious  to  eat  during  the  past 
seventy  years  by  women  who  had  pride  and  joy  in  their 
work.  It  was  the  poetry  of  restaurant  keeping  which 
these  lovers  sensed  in  nibbling  Lovers'  Kisses  and  talking 
about  the  weather. 

But  after  a  while  the  kind  shopwoman  retired  to  a  cor- 
ner and  feigned  to  be  sorting  gingerbreads  into  a  tall  glass 
jar.  So  Unwin  bent  forward  across  the  table  and  said 
quickly — 

"You  wouldn't  come  with  me  to  Ryeford.  Why  not?" 

"Aunt  Dickson "  murmured  Pauline.  "I  don't 

like  to  leave  her  too  much  alone." 


108  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"It  is  a  lovely  church,"  he  said.  "I  believe  I  may  haT« 
something  to  do  there  when  Marcross  is  finished. ' ' 

"But  would  you  not  rather  build  a  church  outright?" 
said  Pauline,  speaking  at  random.  "In  the  future  no- 
body will  ever  know  you  did  anything  if  you  only  repair 
and  restore  and  beautify.  You  get  lost!" 

"That's  just "  he  began.     But  he  could  not  yet 

explain  to  her  how  he  felt  about  that;  he  did  not  even, 
as  it  were,  mention  the  matter  to  himself.  But  the  whole 
of  his  own  work  was  inspired  by  the  thought  of  those 
brothers  of  his  in  the  past  who  had  added  and  beautified 
and  been  forgotten,  and  yet  must  be  gloriously  remem- 
bered so  long  as  tower  and  steeple  stand  among  cluster- 
ing English  villages. 

A  silence  fell  between  them;  one  of  those  odd  silences 
which  happen  when  certain  words  crowd  round  waiting 
to  be  spoken  and  no  others  will  come.  A  time  of  miser- 
able, happy,  odd  embarrassment  in  which  lovers  usually 
nimble-minded  become  awkward. 

Then  the  shop-door  opened  and  Miss  Amelia  hurried  in, 
saying  breathlessly — 

"Miss  "Westcott  here?  I  saw  her  in  the  window  a  mo- 
ment ago  .  .  .  expecting  me  .  .  .  grieved  to  be  so  late." 
And  she  perched  on  a  chair  by  the  little  table.  "And  so, 
Pauline,  you  have  started  without  me?  Quite  right." 

Pauline  and  Unwin  looked  at  Miss  Amelia  with  natural 
astonishment. 

"Do  have  a  cake,"  said  Pauline  nervously. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  drawing  Unwin 's  cup 
towards  her  and  taking  a  bun.  "Ah!  quite  a  feast. 
Lovers'  Kisses.  Delicious,  of  course  ..."  She  broke 
off  and  flushed  all  over  her  delicate  face.  "Not  that  I 
mean  ..."  She  stopped  again.  "Let  us  all  be  eating." 

Pauline  pitied  the  little  lady's  obvious  disturbance, 
though  unable  to  imagine  the  cause,  while  Unwin  nibbled 
another  bun,  flying  in  the  face  of  organs  which  absolutely 
declined  further  sustenance,  and  remarked  jauntily — 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  109 

"I  persuaded  Miss  "Westcott  to  join  me.  I  hate  having 
tea  alone." 

"The  more  the  merrier,"  seconded  Pauline,  making  an 
effort  to  appear  unconcerned.  "So  glad  you  came,  Miss 
Amelia." 

"No— no.  I  can't  suppose  ..."  She  gazed  distract- 
edly around  the  shop.  "Oh,  here  they  are!" 

And  as  she  spoke,  the  Vicar,  the  Vicar's  wife,  Mrs. 
Delamere  and  Miss  Harriet  entered. 

"You  are  expecting  them  too?"  said  Unwin,  rising. 

"Sit  down.  Sit  down.  Let  us  all  be  eating,"  urged 
Miss  Amelia.  Then  she  raised  her  voice  and  said  in  a 
high,  fluty  tone,  across  the  shop.  "H-hem!  I  am  having 
a  little  party,  Harriet,  as  you  see." 

"You  ...  a  party!  And  never  told  me!"  said  Miss 
Harriet,  staring. 

"Impromptu,"  fluttered  Miss  Amelia.  "I  always  think 
impromptu  things.  .  .  .  Do  come  and  join  us,  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere. ' ' 

The  Vicar,  the  Vicar's  wife,  Miss  Harriet  and  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere, all  four  stood  and  gaped  across  buns  and  cheese- 
cakes at  Miss  Amelia's  flushed  face,  and  at  the  excited 
lilt  of  her  tongue. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere  at  last,  "but  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  taking  my  tea  at  six-thirty." 

' '  Oh,  nice  change  .  .  .  too  much  of  a  groove  in  Wendle- 
bury,"  responded  Miss  Amelia. 

"We  are  here,"  announced  the  Vicar,  taking  the  affair 
in  hand,  "to  make  arrangements  for  the  Parish  Treat." 

"Amelia  knew  that.  I  parted  from  her  in  this  street 
only  five  minutes  since,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  puzzled  and 
annoyed. 

Then  the  proprietress  of  the  shop  came  forth,  ushering 
the  distinguished  party  into  that  little  room  behind  the 
shop  where  so  many  wedding  and  christening  feasts  had 
been  arranged  during  the  past  fifty  years  that  there  min- 


110  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

gled  with  the  smell  of  bride-cake  a  fragrance  of  youth  and 
innocent  pleasure. 

The  three  left  behind  looked  at  each  other. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Unwin  would  kindly  obtain  the  bill," 
said  Miss  Amelia,  rather  faintly. 

"If  you  are  sure  you  won't  have  any  more?"  said 
Unwin,  wondering  what  on  earth  it  all  meant. 

' '  No,  thank  you, ' '  said  Pauline.  And  as  he  moved  away 
she  leaned  close  to  Miss  Amelia,  pressing  her  hand.  "You 
are  a  dear.  But  it's  not  a  crime  to  have  tea  with  a  young 
man  in  a  shop,  even  in  Wendlebury;  is  it?" 

' '  Not  a  crime,  but  an  indiscretion ;  which  is  worse,  some- 
times, in  affairs  of  the  ..."  Miss  Amelia  broke  off  and 
continued  after  a  pause,  earnestly  and  simply,  forgetting 
herself  and  her  nervousness :  ' '  My  dear,  talk  made  me  an 
old  maid.  It  puts  off  more  love-affairs  than  any  cause  in 
the  world.  In  my  youth  a  young  gentleman  cared  for 
me  up  to  a  certain  point  and  then  it  all  died  out  and  I 
very  much  wondered  why.  I  spent,  really,  a  good  many 
years  wondering.  But  in  the  end,  I  knew — just  from  see- 
ing the  same  thing  happen  to  other  young  people.  When 
all  is  there,  ready,  but  not — fixed,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean? — gossip  is  like  pulling  up  a  plant  to  see  how  it 
grows.  The  plant  often  dies."  She  sighed,  and  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  though  she  was  smiling.  ' '  That  is  why 
I  joined  you.  I  didn't  want  ...  I  should  be  so  sorry " 

"Dear  Miss  Amelia,"  said  Pauline  softly.  She  could 
not  find  anything  else  to  say,  in  spite  of  the  tender,  kind 
thoughts  which  filled  her  heart  for  the  little  lady:  but 
she  felt  all  the  same  that  there  could  be  no  comparison 
between  the  love  of  a  mid- Victorian  gentleman  in  side- 
whiskers  and  that  of  Unwin.  She  knew  deeply  that  no 
lover  in  the  world  was  like  hers,  nor  ever  could  be.  It 
seemed  ridiculous  to  think  of  anything  so  strong  and 
splendid  being  killed  by  the  idle  tongues  of  Wendlebury. 

And  as  they  all  three  presently  went  out  of  the  shop 
together,  she  wore  such  a  radiant  air  that  the  kind  shop- 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  111 

woman  felt  a  stirring  of  the  pulses  and  a  desire  to  throw 
crystallised  rose-leaves,  while  Unwin  was  so  plainly  in  love 
with  all  the  world  because  of  her,  that  Miss  Amelia  walked 
home  between  them  as  if  on  a  rosy  cloud,  upborne  by  their 
happiness. 

On  the  way  from  Miss  Amelia's,  Pauline  and  Unwin 
talked  of  her,  and  said  how  dear  she  was,  and  they  both 
secretly  saw  her  coming  and  going  in  their  house,  in  the 
lovely  future  when  they  had  one  another. 

"You  11  come  to  Ryeford  Church  with  me  to-morrow?" 
said  Unwin,  holding  Pauline's  hand  close  when  they 
reached  Aunt  Dickson's  door. 

"Yes,"  said  Pauline. 

Then  she  ran  up  the  path,  longing  to  be  alone  with  her 
wonderful  thoughts,  and  opened  the  front  door  softly. 
But  as  she  went  past  the  living-room  door  its  blank  panels 
seemed  to  condemn  her.  Poor  Aunt  Dickson,  shut  out  for 
ever  from  all  this  glory  and  tingling  adventure  of  love. 
.  .  .  She  paused  a  moment,  fighting  with  her  desire  for 
solitude,  and  then  went  in. 

"Bless  me !"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "you  have  got  a  colour. 
Nobody  would  know  you  for  the  pale  little  girl  that  came 
to  Wendlebury.  Where  have  you  been?" 

"I  have  had  tea  with  Miss  Amelia  and  Mr.  Unwin." 

"Unwin  again!" 

"Yes.  Aunt  Diekson — I  don't  believe  he  does  drink. 
He  may  have  done  once,  by  some  accident,  but  I  shall 
never,  never  believe  he  is  a  drunkard." 

"No?  Well,  you  are  not  a  child,  Pauline.  You  are 
not  even  my  own  daughter,  though  I  care  for  you  as  one. 
I  can  do  no  more." 

She  spoke  heavily,  but  after  a  while  Pauline's  gaiety 
infected  her,  and  she  began  to  look  out  bravely  as  usual 
across  a  jolly  world  which  remained  jolly  in  spite  of 
everything. 

Then  a  man  selling  the  first  crabs  of  the  season  went 
by,  and  she  called  to  him  through  the  open  window.  He 


112  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

seemed  to  her,  in  his  blue  jacket,  like  another  pleasant 
harbinger  of  summer.  And  he  went  off  primed  with 
messages  for  the  Missus  and  thanking  Aunt  Dickson 
kindly. 

"You  might  be  a  millionaire,  the  way  you  throw  money 
about!"  smiled  Pauline,  her  own  joy  deepened,  now  she 
had  conquered  that  desire  to  be  alone,  by  the  sunshine  of 
goodness  and  friendliness  in  this  little  room. 

"I  feel  like  one,"  said  Aunt  Dickson  gaily. 

And  indeed  she  made  of  it  a  jolly  and  open-hearted 
thing,  this  living  on  half  her  income  and  spending  the 
rest  on  extras.  But  Mrs.  Delamere  with  the  same  means 
was  a  poor  woman,  grudging  and  considering  every  penny 
not  spent  on  her  own  actual  needs. 

Later  in  the  evening,  the  carrier  came  from  the  country 
with  butter  and  cream  cheeses,  and  Eva  could  be  heard 
outside,  scolding  him  as  usual  for  being  late  while  listen- 
ing with  pleasure  to  the  scraps  of  gossip  which  he  had  to 
tell.  Then  Aunt  Dickson  sent  out  word  that  he  was  to 
be  given  a  cup  of  cocoa,  and  so  the  night  came,  pleasantly, 
as  it  did  almost  always  to  this  little  house,  through  which 
flowed  a  constant  stream  of  simple  kindness  which  kept 
the  air  so  sweet. 

About  ten  Aunt  Dickson  went  to  bed,  and  Pauline  re- 
mained to  put  the  sitting-room  in  order.  Eva,  carrying 
away  the  supper  tray,  paused  conversationally. 

"Mrs.  Delamere 's  maids  is  leaving  again.  They  say  she 
can't  get  no  others  to  come.  I  don't  wonder." 

Pauline  laughed. 

"They  are  always  saying  something  in  Wendlebury. 
It  is  a  regular  gossip-shop." 

Eva  rested  her  tray  on  the  table  again. 

"You  say  right  there.  But  it's  nothing  to  the  place 
I  come  from."  She  paused,  and  added  in  a  low  tone: 
"Carrier's  just  been  telling  me.  A  poor  girl  I  know  got 
into  trouble  and  she's  hung  herself  in  the  cowstable.  They 
called  it  tempery  insanity,  but  it  was  talk  drove  her  to  it. 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  113 

When  she  see  two  women  together,  and  she  passed,  she 
knew  they  was  talking  about  her.  If  she'd  been  a  real 
bad  'un  she  wouldn't  ha'  cared;  as  my  poor  mother  used 
to  say,  it  isn't  the  real  bad  'uns  that  talk  kills — it'  the  bad 
'uns  that  would  like  to  be  good."  She  paused,  taking  up 
her  tray.  "But  I  can't  help  liking  a  bit  o'  news,  myself. 
Us  Martins  always. was  ones  for  a  bit  o'  news." 

"Well,"  said  Pauline,  "I  suppose  if  you  like  people, 
you  like  talking  about  people.  And  then  you're  a  gossip 
before  you  know  where  you  are." 

"Anyway,"  replied  Eva,  "7  hate  to  hear  them  folks 
talk  that's  always  turning  over  what  they  say  for  fear 
it  should  get  them  into  trouble  somewheres  or  somehow. 
If  a  man  goes  down  a  road  at  night  with  a  neighbour's 
best  hen  Tinder  his  coat  and  you  may  only  pass  remark 
that  mebbe  he's  borrowed  it  until  morning.  .  .  .  Well, 
give  me  gossip,  say  I!  What's  newspapers,  mostly — all 
the  interesting  parts  about  murders  and  divorces  and 
that?  Why,  gossip,  of  course.  And  then  they  say  Lon- 
don folks  doesn't  like  gossip  same  as  we  do.  We're  all  of 
a  piece  in  the  world — that's  what  we  are." 

"But  the  poor  girl  ..."  said  Pauline. 

"Ay!  it  falls  hard  on  some,"  concluded  Eva,  going1 
out.  "It  does  certainly  fall  hard  on  some!" 

Then  Pauline  turned  out  the  lights  and  went  up  to  her 
own  room,  where  she  could  be  alone  at  last  with  that 
most  wonderful  discovery  in  the  world,  which  is  found 
anew  every  time  as  if  it  were  hidden  since  the  creation. 

Both  Unwin  and  Pauline  that  night  felt  upliftedly 
aware  that  no  one  had  ever  been  down  the  exact  path 
they  travelled,  during  those  happy,  wakeful  hours  chimed 
out  by  the  Wendlebury  bells  above  the  little  town.  And 
perhaps  they  were  right :  love  is  so  vast. 

The  following  afternoon  Pauline  went  out  to  take  her 
walk  as  usual  while  Aunt  Dickson  rested.  Unwin  was 
waiting  for  her  beyond  the  long  row  of  straight-fronted 


114  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

houses,  and  they  made  their  way  by  a  devious,  back  route 
to  the  country,  not  because  they  really  feared  to  be  seen, 
but  because  secrecy  is  an  instinct  with  young  lovers.  As 
they  passed  the  Bowling  Green  Inn,  they  saw  the  jackdaw 
hopping  about  and  said  to  each  other  ' '  Mary  Jane ! ' '  and 
laughed  at  the  jolliness  of  a  world  in  which  true  lovers 
could  be  first  brought  together  by  a  wicked  old  bird  in 
a  chimney. 

"I'd  like  to  have  the  old  fellow  for  my  own,"  said 
Unwin. 

"So  should  I,"  responded  Pauline,  and  they  both 
thought  at  once  of  a  little  green  lawn  behind  a  house 
where  they  would  live  together  as  man  and  wife.  The 
air  seemed  full  of  wedding  bells  and  sunshine,  though 
it  rained  a  little,  and  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  was  the 
clash  of  pewter  pots,  in  the  hand  of  the  maid  of  the  inn, 
who  stared  at  them  from  an  open  doorway. 

They  did  not  put  up  umbrellas,  being  clad  in  raincoats 
and  caps,  and  the  taste  of  the  soft,  gently-falling  rain 
was  fresh  and  pleasant  on  their  lips.  They  felt  a  strong, 
springing  sense  of  growth,  like  that  of  the  fields  and 
hedgerows  of  early  summer  which  they  passed  when  they 
turned  into  the  Ryeford  Road.  The  scarecrow  waved  a 
disreputable  sleeve,  seeming  to  crack  low  jokes  with  the 
crows  about  sweethearts,  but  all  the  same  wishing  these 
two  good  luck. 

"Lovely  day!"  said  Unwin,  and  they  went  on  gaily, 
though  by  now  the  rain  was  slanting  in  great  sheets  across 
the  red  roofs  and  the  grey  spire. 

Before  reaching  the  Dragon  at  Ryeford,  they  encoun- 
tered Chubb 's  cab  in  which  Delia  Lambert  was  seated, 
and  some  latent  antagonism  edged  Pauline's  voice  as  she 
said  "Good  afternoon."  But  Chubb  pulled  up  without 
being  told,  considering  that  any  acquaintance  of  his  gen- 
erous fare  must  wish  to  speak  to  her,  for  she  was  a  lady, 
she  was,  and  no  doubt  about  it.  Therefore  he  said,  with 
comparative  affability — 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  115 

"It's  wot  I  call  wet." 

"Better  for  driving,  Miss  Lambert?"  said  Unwin,  ap- 
proaching and  holding  out  a  friendly  hand. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  I'm  turning  into  a  tree  or  vegetable. 
It's  queer,  but  I  like  a  new  experience.  My  arms  are 
still  human  arms  but  my  head  is  part  of  a  nice,  comfort- 
able cabbage ;  you  '11  soon  see  me  sprouting. ' ' 

"I've  always  rather  envied  them,  standing  by  streams 
with  their  feet  in  forget-me-nots,"  said  Pauline  lightly. 

"That's  how  you  want  to  feel  for  a  time,  Miss  Lam- 
bert," said  Unwin.  "Do  you  a  power  of  good." 

Delia  glanced  at  him  half  wistfully,  half  curiously,  and 
then  at  Pauline. 

"Why?" 

"You  know." 

She  smiled  her  odd,  twisted  smile,  which  was  yet  charm- 
ing because  it  was  so  unartificial. 

"But  our  roots  still  ache  every  now  and  then.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Miss  Westcott?" 

' '  I  couldn  't  imagine  you  taking  root. ' ' 

' '  No ;  you  're  right, ' '  said  Delia  in  rather  a  sombre  tone ; 
but  immediately  she  added  with  a  smile:  "Well,  I  must 
be  getting  on.  It  is  a  delightful  day  for  walking,  in 
spite  of  the  rain,  isn't  it?" 

"If  you  stopped  at  home  for  rain  in  Wendlebury  ..." 

Thus  was  it  politely  agreed  between  the  ladies  that  there 
could  be  nothing  unusual  in  a  girl  and  a  young  man  taking 
a  long  country  walk  together  in  a  downpour.  Then  Chubb 
jerked  his  rein,  and  Griselda  went  on  with  a  blink  and 
a  gentle  whisk  of  the  tail,  looking  most  oddly  like  a  ro- 
mantic maiden  aunt. 

Pauline  and  Unwin  pursued  their  road  with  a  feeling 
that  something  significant  had  happened,  and  yet  noth- 
ing had  happened.  Only  they  were  in  some  way  thrown 
out  of  tune.  They  no  longer  felt  themselves  buoyantly 
part  of  a  gay  world  in  which  even  the  scarecrow  waved 
them  good  luck.  They  were  two  real  people,  in  a  real  life, 


116  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

where  discords  unite  to  make  harmony  at  a  long  dis- 
tance." 

"You  know  her  well,  then?"  said  Pauline. 

"Pretty  well.     Don't  you  like  her?" 

"Yes.  At  least  I  have  no  reason  for  not  liking  her 
.  .  .  only  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sorry  for  her,"  said  Unwin,  and  Pauline  felt  re- 
buffed and  angry,  not  realising  the  plain  fact  that  she 
was  jealous.  If  lovers  realised  plain  facts  about  them- 
selves how  strange  life  would  be  ...  so  utterly  different. 
Yet  we  love  dear  life  best  as  it  is,  just  as  we  love  a  dear 
person  with  a  crooked  eyebrow  or  a  long  upper  lip,  and 
would  not  have  them  otherwise. 

"She  is  odd,"  pursued  Unwin,  utterly  unable  to  con- 
ceive that  the  lady  of  his  dreams  should  be  jealous  of  a 
battered  woman  over  thirty.  "You  can't  judge  her,  really, 
by  ordinary  standards." 

"Interesting,  I  suppose?"  said  Pauline,  controlling 
voice  and  face  to  a  level  politeness. 

"Very,"  said  Unwin.  Then,  as  they  were  now  ap- 
proaching the  Dragon  Inn,  he  said  impulsively,  "Some 
people  do  seem  to  have  hard  luck  and  you  don't  know 
why.  Temperament,  I  suppose;  but  they  don't  make 
their  own  temperament  to  begin  with.  It  does  seem 
hard  ..."  He  broke  off,  glancing  at  the  Dragon  Inn 
which  they  were  then  passing. 

Pauline  noted  the  urgency  of  his  tone,  and  put  it  all 
down  to  his  sympathy  with  Delia.  She  felt  offended  in 
her  most  secret  girl's  pride  that  Unwin  should  bring  her 
out  here  with  a  practical  understanding  that  he  would 
ask  her  to  marry  him,  and  then  should  talk  with  such 
keen  interest  about  another  woman.  But  she  held  up  her 
head  and  said  clearly — 

"I've  always  believed  in  luck.  You  can't  explain  that 
away." 

"Organised  luck  is  the  greatest  power  in  the  world  so 
far  as  material  things  go,"  assented  Unwin,  but  he  spoke 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  117 

mechanically,  as  she  did,  and,  behind  the  words,  events 
of  the  spirit  were  taking  place  without  either  of  the 
speakers  being  aware  of  it  in  the  other.  This  happens  so 
constantly  that  there  would  be  no  need  to  notice  the  fact 
but  for  the  result  produced  in  these  two  lives. 

"The  rain  is  ceasing,"  said  Pauline,  and  as  she  said 
that  her  spirit  slipped  away  from  Un win's  to  an  infinite 
distance;  all  the  flush  and  glow  faded:  she  became  once 
more  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  elusive  and  remote. 

But  he  felt  a  greater  longing  to  get  near  her  than  he  had 
ever  known  before.  The  desire  for  a  woman  to  whom  he 
could  tell  everything — the  wife  in  his  home — became  as 
great  as  his  young  desire  for  her  love.  He  turned  to  her 
suddenly,  taking  her  arm. 

"Pauline,  one  morning  when  I  stood  there,"  he  said, 
"I'd  just  seen  a  man  die:  one  of  the  sort  that  seems 
bound  to  make  a  mess  of  things.  And  he  went  so  hard. 
He  seemed  to  have  no  hope.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt 
at  that  minute.  ..." 

' '  I  was  there.   I  saw  you, ' '  said  Pauline. 

Her  words  were  like  stones  falling  into  a  well.  She 
could  not  say  any  more,  and  he  stood  staring  at  her. 

"You  saw  me!    What  did  you  think?" 

She  opened  her  lips  to  tell  him  she  had  thought  he  was 
drunk,  but  she  could  not  do  it. 

"I  thought  you  looked  .  .  .  dreadful.  ..." 

Then,  behind  her  sick  self-reproach,  she  felt  a  little  light 
growing.  It  was  just  as  if  some  one  had  let  the  sun  into 
a  dark  room,  opening  one  window  after  another  until  the- 
whole  place  was  filled  with  light  and  you  could  smell  the 
flowers  and  hear  the  birds  singing.  She  had  been  ready 
to  marry  him  and  had  believed  in  him  in  a  sense,  through 
faith;  but  this  was  certainty. 

"Poor  man!"  she  sighed,  and  from  her  heart  she  said 
a  prayer  for  Delamere. 

Then  they  entered  Ryeford  Church,  and  Unwin  began 
to  tell  her  the  history  of  the  square  tower  beneath  which 


118  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Ryeford  people  had  worshipped  for  nearly  a  thousand 
years.  And  this  did  not  make  Pauline's  own  life  seem 
a  little  fleeting  thing  of  no  matter,  as  might  have  been 
supposed,  but  only  glorified  it,  giving  a  young  love  a  sense 
of  all  love  being  eternal. 

The  joy  of  the  artist — architecture  being  the  greatest 
of  all  the  arts  and  the  mother  of  them  all — mingled  in 
Un win's  case  with  his  joy  in  the  woman  he  had  chosen, 
so  that  Ryeford  Church,  on  that  gleaming  afternoon  when 
sun  shone  after  rain,  was  filled  with  an  unforgettable 
glory  such  as  some  men  never  see  all  their  lives. 

Pauline,  too,  felt  lifted  up  as  if  on  wings  by  an  intense 
relief  which  showed  now  how  great  her  apprehension  must 
have  been,  though  she  made  herself  overcome  it.  But 
something  within  her  wondered  a  little  why  Unwin  delayed 
his  proposal,  and  this  soon  left  her  remote.  She  so  easily 
withdrew,  and  there  was  no  flush  of  girlish  passion  in  her 
as  she  followed  him  through  the  silent  aisles.  If  there 
had  been,  he  would  have  broken  his  resolution  to  refrain 
from  asking  her  to  be  his  wife  until  he  had  definitely  re- 
ceived Lord  Southwater's  appointment. 

For  it  was  Unwin 's  misfortune  that  he  always  desired 
to  have  the  whole  thing  perfect — he  wanted  love  and  time 
and  circumstance  all  together — and  that  exquisite  satis- 
faction in  the  future  enabled  him  to  keep  silence  now.  He 
was,  with  no  outward  sign  of  it,  a  seeker  after  loveliness, 
which  was  why  he  delighted  in  the  prospect  of  being  made 
guardian  over  these  beautiful  graveyards  planted  in  kind- 
ness by  people  who  loved.  It  was  real  hard  work,  enough 
to  fill  a  man's  life  with  manly  toil,  and  yet  a  pursuit  of 
loveliness. 

Still,  when  he  and  Pauline  parted  outside  her  door,  he 
began  to  feel  a  sudden  misgiving.  She  looked  so  sweet 
with  her  little,  pale,  pointed  face  and  deep  eyes  and  her 
expressive,  gloveless  hand  held  out  to  him,  and  yet  he  was 
no  longer  certain  of  her.  He  held  her  hand,  and  yet  she 
seemed  once  more  a  long  way  off.  He  wished  ardently 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  119 

that  he  had  asked  her  when  she  seemed  so  near  to  him 
on  the  way  to  Ryeford.  He  would  ask  her  now,  with  Aunt 
Dickson  beaming  amiably  through  the  open  window. 

But  Pauline's  eyes  mirrored  back  his  glance  blankly, 
mysteriously,  like  a  pool  in  a  deep  wood. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Unwin." 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow?" 

Then  Aunt  Dickson  called  from  the  window — 

"Lovely  evening  after  the  rain,  Mr.  Unwin." 

So  he  stood  among  the  geraniums  and  lobelias  beneath 
the  window  talking  to  Aunt  Dickson,  and  the  desperate 
thought  came  to  him  that  he  would  demand  an  interview 
with  Pauline  in  the  back  sitting-room;  he  could  not  go 
away  without  knowing  if  she  loved  him  or  not.  But  Aunt 
Dickson  complained  that  the  evening  air  grew  chilly,  so 
the  window  was  closed :  and  as  he  looked  at  Pauline 's  face 
through  the  glass  he  felt  suddenly  shut  away  from  her 
for  ever.  She  seemed  to  recede  always  as  he  advanced. 

But  before  he  reached  the  end  of  the  street  he  was  glad 
he  had  not  asked  for  the  interview  in  the  back  room  among 
stuffed  pike  caught  by  Aunt  Dickson 's  late  husband.  He 
had  not  done  violence  to  her  feelings  for  that  end.  And 
secretly,  unconsciously,  he  was  glad  to  have  all  the  wonder 
and  glory  still  in  front  of  him ;  for  if  Pauline  glimmered 
elusive  in  his  misty  thoughts,  he  also  was  of  those  who 
love  to  follow. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT 

AUNT  DICKSON  sat  in  her  usual  place  by  the  window. 
Opposite  to  her  was  the  little  dressmaker  with  whom 
Delia  Lambert  lodged. 

"Looks  as  good  as  new,"  said  the  dressmaker,  stitching 
a  clean  lace  front  into  a  bodice. 

"You  save  more  by  mending  than  by  making,"  said 
Aunt  Dickson.  But  the  remarks  on  both  sides  were  me- 
chanical— the  bow  of  the  acrobat  on  entering  the  stage — 
the  real  business  about  to  begin. 

"So  that  fortune-telling  person  is  still  with  you?"  said 
Aunt  Dickson,  figuratively  chalking  her  feet. 

"Yes;  she  does  for  herself  and  is  a  quiet  lodger,"  apolo- 
gised Miss  Walker,  "and  nobody  believes  her  fortune-tell- 
ing, so  it  doesn't  really  matter.  Live  and  let  live,  say  I!" 

This  was  a  principle  so  after  Aunt  Dickson 's  own  heart 
that  she  could  only  respond,  swinging  up,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  trapeze.  ' '  I  hear  she  has  a  lot  of  visitors  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Walker,  anxious  to  oblige,  for  the 
occasions  when  she  worked  for  Aunt  Dickson  were  red- 
letter  days  in  her  calendar,  and  she  always  looked  on  the 
little  house  as  a  land  flowing  with  hot  drinks  and  buttered 
tea-cakes.  "I  am  out,  of.  course,  as  a  rule,  but  people 
sometimes  come  in  the  evening  after  I  get  home."  She 
paused  and  leaned  forward.  "Miss  Amelia  for  one." 

"Miss  Amelia!  You  would  think  she  would  be  the 
last,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  enjoying  herself  very  much. 

"And  Mr.  Unwin,"  continued  Miss  Walker.  "He  has 
been  several  times." 

120 


PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT  121 

"Unwin!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Dickson  again,  then  aS 
Pauline  came  into  the  room  she  added  excitedly — 

"What  do  you  think?  It  appears  that  Unwin  often 
goes  to  that  lodger  of  Miss  "Walker's  to  get  his  fortune 
told." 

"Not — not  exactly  that,"  interposed  the  little  dress- 
maker, mindful  of  that  supper-party  when  she  had  felt 
so  gay  and  happy,  and  not  wishing  to  prejudice  Unwin  in 
Pauline's  eyes.  "I  think  he  just  comes  out  of  kind-heart- 
edness, because  Miss  Lamhert  is  lonely.  You  can't  help 
liking  her,  though  she  does  smoke  and  leave  her  things 
all  over  the  place.  And  him  putting  her  out  when  she 
was  a-fire  seems  to  make  a  sort  of  bond — "  Miss  "Walker 
gazed  anxiously  at  the  two  ladies.  "It  would,  you  know." 

"But  how  did  he  find  her  on  fire?"  demanded  Aunt 
Dickson,  asking  the  question  which  leapt  up  at  once  in 
Pauline's  mind. 

"He  happened  to  be  passing — Mrs.  Chubb  sent  him  in 
— only  common  'umanity,"  faltered  the  little  dressmaker, 
shocked  at  the  impression  she  had  made.  "You  can't  let 
cigarette  smoking  and  a  difference  of  gender  stand  in  the 
way  of  saving  life,  can  you?"  She  turned  urgently  to 
Pauline  who  still  stood  by  the  door.  "Can  you,  Miss 
Pauline?" 

Pauline  smiled  and  came  forward  into  the  room,  hold- 
ing out  the  black  cotton  which  she  had  been  sent  to  pur- 
chase. 

"No,  indeed.  Besides,  I  daresay  Miss  Lambert  is  a 
very  amusing  companion.  I  spoke  to  her  yesterday  when 
I  was  on  the  Ryeford  Road." 

"Oh,  you  never  told  me!"  said  Aunt  Dickson. 

"Did  I  not?"  said  Pauline  lightly;  but  she  knew  quite 
well  that  for  some  obscure  reason  she  had  refrained  from 
mentioning  the  encounter. 

""Were  you  with  Unwin?"  pursued  Aunt  Dickson. 

"Yes.  She  was  in  Chubb 's  cab,"  said  Pauline.  "Now, 
Miss  "Walker,  I  think  this  cotton  will  be  all  right?" 


122  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

But  Aunt  Dickson  was  not  to  be  so  easily  turned  aside. 

"I  thought  Miss  Lambert  was  poor — very  poor.  How 
can  she  afford  Chubb?" 

"She  came  somehow  into  a  bit  of  money,"  said  Miss 
Walker.  "It  is  a  very  good  thing  for  Chubb."  She 
paused,  then,  eager  to  aid  Delia's  cause,  she  added  im- 
pulsively: "Chubb  thinks  the  world  of  her.  Says  she's 
the  nicest  lady  he  ever  served." 

"Mrs.  Chubb  thinks  differently,  according  to  Eva's 
account,"  said  Aunt  Dickson. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Walker,  "I  shall  ever  remember  the 
time  when  my  teeth  was  all  wrong  and  dropping  down, 
and  me  no  treat  for  anybody,  and  the  way  she  had  me 
to  supper  with  Mr.  Unwin  and  salmon  and  every  deli- 
cacy." 

"A  supper  party!"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "Well,  I 
never. ' ' 

Fortunately  for  Miss  Walker  there  came  a  ring  at  the 
front  door,  so  she  peered  through  the  window,  exclaimed: 
"It's  Miss  Amelia  as  I'm  alive!"  and  escaped  thankfully 
into  the  back  room. 

It  was  now  early  afternoon,  with  a  pleasant  spring 
light  on  the  flowers  and  on  the  tea-tray  already  laid, 
which  only  wanted  the  square  silver  teapot.  Miss  Amelia 
sat  down  in  the  midst  of  all  this  cheerful  plenty  and  be- 
gan to  chatter  nervously. 

"Such  a  delicious  day.  Must  take  advantage  of  it. 
My  sister  Harriet  has  been  to  lunch  at  the  Vicarage.  She 
is  quite  a  lay-curate  as  I  always  say.  The  least  they  can 
do — an  occasional  cutlet — the  wear  and  tear  in  shoe-leather 
alone."  Then  she  broke  off  and  repeated  aimlessly,  "De- 
licious day!" 

"Did  Miss  Harriet  enjoy  herself?"  said  Pauline,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  making  a  remark,  it  being  obvious  that  Miss 
Amelia  had  something  more  serious  than  the  lunch  at  the 
Vicarage  on  her  mind. 

"No.     Yes,"  the  little  lady  rose  abruptly,  almost  up- 


PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT  123 

setting  the  tray  of  cakes.  "I — the  fact  is — dear  Mrs.  Dick- 
son,  I  am  feeling  the — the  need  of  air." 

"But  the  window  is  wide  open,"  said  Aunt  Dickson, 
staring  at  Miss  Amelia  in  some  perturbation.  "Do  you 
feel  ill?" 

"Not  at  all.  You  mistake  me.  I  mean  country  air, 
on  the  Ryeford  Road,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "And  I  won- 
dered if  Pauline  would  accompany  me. ' ' 

"But  it  is  just  tea-time,"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "Surely 
you  don't  want  to  miss  your  tea?" 

Miss  Amelia  turned  pink  and  white,  and  looked  miser- 
ably at  Pauline. 

"I  have  always  understood  that  air  was  feeding,"  she 
murmured.  "If  dear  Pauline  would  come  now  I  should 
be  so  greatly  obliged." 

"Of  course  I  will,"  said  Pauline  at  once.  "I  have  my 
hat  and  coat  on  already." 

' '  So  sweet  of  you.  Good-bye,  dear  Mrs.  Dickson.  Please 
don't  think  it  unkind  ...  a  sudden  craving  for  air  ..." 
and  she  murmured  herself  agitatedly  out  of  the  house. 

Once  in  the  street,  she  became  a  little  calmer. 

"Let  us  talk  of  indifferent  topics,"  she  said,  straighten- 
ing her  veil  with  trembling  fingers.  "If  we  could  ex- 
change views  about  the  parliamentary  situation  until  we 
reached  the  corner  of  the  Ryeford  Road  I  think  it  might 
do  me  good.  That  and  the  fresh  air.  I  always  think  any- 
thing about  Parliament  so  soothing  .  .  .  talk  and  talk  and 
the  same  thing  repeated  over  and  over  again  and  nothing 
really  happening.  It  has  the  same  effect  on  my  mind  now 
as  the  'House  that  Jack  built'  had  when  I  was  little." 

So  they  went  along,  Miss  Amelia  talking  and  Pauline 
listening,  until  they  reached  the  green  country. 

"And  now,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  putting  up  her  veil, 
"you  will  doubtless  wonder  why  I  brought  you  here?" 

"Has  Miss  Harriet  quarrelled  with  the  Vicar  again?" 
said  Pauline. 

Miss  Amelia  shook  her  head. 


124  .      THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"If  it  were  only  that!"  She  paused.  "I  thought  I 
must  tell  you  alone.  I  thought  you  would  prefer  it.  It 
would  be  such  an  unpleasant  shock  if  people  were  there, 
for  you  could  scarcely  help  changing  countenance.  And 
as  you  are  not  really  engaged " 

' '  Miss  Amelia, ' '  pleaded  Pauline,  ' '  do  tell  me  what  you 
mean?" 

And  something  in  the  girl's  tone  made  Miss  Amelia 
forget  her  own  nervousness,  so  that  she  said  with  quiet 
directness — 

"The  Vicar  had  a  letter  from  Lord  Southwater  this 
morning.  Mr.  Unwin  has  not  got  the  post. ' ' 

"Not  got  the  post!"  said  Pauline. 

"No.  The  Vicar  went  in  to  see  Unwin.  He  is  so 
very  sorry  about  it." 

"But  why  has  Lord  Southwater  changed  his  mind?  It 
was  practically  settled,"  said  Pauline. 

"Nobody  knows.  Lord  Southwater  just  said  he  had 
made  other  arrangements." 

Pauline  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Well,  I  must  go  back.  Aunt  Dickson  is  expecting 
several  people  to  tea  and  she  will  need  me." 

Miss  Amelia  peered  up  anxiously  into  Pauline's  pale 
face  which  told  her  nothing. 

"You  don't  think  me  officious?" 

"No,  no,"  cried  Pauline,  putting  her  hand  through 
Miss  Amelia's  arm.  "You  are  the  kindest  and  best.  Only 
I  don't  want  to  say  anything.  ...  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could.  But  I  shall  never,  never  forget  your  coming  to 
tell  me." 

"And  money  does  not  really  matter  at  all  in  life,"  added 
dear  Miss  Amelia.  "So  long  as  people  are  young  and 
care  for  each  other  ..." 

A  thrush  sang  out — dear  thrush — Amen!  A-A-men! 
It  was  just  a  psalm  in  praise  of  love  that  the  little  old  maid 
and  the  bird  gave  forth  together. 


PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT  125 

Pauline  returned  to  the  little  house  when  she  found 
it  difficult  to  hand  cups  and  saucers  and  seem  prettily 
interested  'in  the  misdemeanours  of  maidservants.  At 
last,  however,  the  guests  went  away,  and  the  question 
which  had  been  hot  upon  her  tongue  during  that  endless 
tea-party  was  spoken. 

"Did  you  tell  Mrs.  Delamere  about  Mr.  Unwin?" 

"What  about  him?" 

"His  being  in  the  Dragon  doorway  that  morning." 
She  paused,  "Drunk — as  I  thought." 

"I  don't  remember  doing  so,"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "No, 
T  feel  sure  I  never  did." 

"Did  you  tell  anybody?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  did  mention  the  matter  to  some  one,  but  I  forget  who." 
She  looked  red,  and  troubled,  at  Pauline,  searching  her 
memory.  "'Oh,  I  know  .  .  .  Cakes  .  .  .  Miss  Argle! 
But  it  would  be  in  the  strictest  confidence,  I  am  sure." 

"And  Miss  Argle  no  doubt  told  Mrs.  Delamere  in  the 
strictest  confidence.  Well — "  Pauline's  throat  felt  dry 
and  her  voice  came  huskily — "Well,  that  story  has  cost 
Unwin  his  appointment.  And  yet  he  had  been  up  all  night 
with  a  dying  man  whom  he  got  to  know  by  chance." 

"I  remember  a  stranger  dying  at  the  Dragon,"  said 
Aunt  Dickson.  "But  Lord  South  water  is  a  just  man, 
and  he  would  never  be  influenced  to  that  degree  by  a 
piece  of  trivial  gossip.  He  is  used  to  the  world — and 
to  Mrs.  Delamere  also,  Pauline.  Besides,  we  do  not  know 
that  Miss  Argle  said  anything,  after  all." 

"Some  one  must  find  out,"  replied  Pauline.  "Then 
Lord  Southwater  must  be  told  the  exact  truth." 

Aunt  Dickson  shook  her  head. 

"That  would  only  make  bad,  worse.  If  Lord  South- 
water  knows  nothing  about  the  story  and  has  never  heard 
that  Unwin  is  reputed  to  be  rather  irresponsible,  one  might 
do  a  great  deal  of  harm.  For  all  you  know,  the  post  may 


126  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

be  offered  to  him  sometime  in  the  future.  "We  can't  pos- 
sibly know  Lord  Southwater's  reasons." 

Aunt  Dickson  spoke  urgently,  fully  believing  what  she 
said;  but  the  motives  of  all  people  are  mixed,  and  she 
was  unaware  how  greatly  her  vague  prejudice  against 
TJnwin  as  a  husband  influenced  her  conclusions.  In  ad- 
dition to  this,  she  was  old  and  dependent  on  others,  and 
something  below  reason — the  instinct  of  self-preservation 
which  is  so  strong  in  the  very  young  and  the  very  old — 
made  her  unconsciously  work  to  keep  by  her  side  one  who 
so  reinforced  her  waning  vitality. 

"But  you  surely  don't  think  we  ought  to  sit  still  and 
do  nothing!"  said  Pauline. 

"We  must  think  it  over,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  flushed 
and  disturbed.  "I  don't  see  what  we  can  do  that  will  not 
injure  TJnwin  more  than  help  him.  You  see,  we  don't 
know  Lord  Southwater  has  heard  anything." 

Pauline  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out 
at  the  soft  rain  slanting  across  the  houses  opposite  with 
their  iron  rails  and  gleaming  knockers. 

"I  know,"  she  said;  "I  who  have  taken  his  chance  in 
life  away  from  him." 

"No — no.  That  is  talking  in  a  foolish  exaggerated  way, 
not  at  all  like  you,  Pauline,"  said  Aunt  Dickson.  "You 
meant  no  harm." 

"But  harm  happened,"  persisted  Pauline.  "Oh!  if  you 
could  only  unsay  things!" 

Aunt  Dickson  shook  her  head,  looking  into  the  fire,  and 
back  on  her  own  life. 

"Yes,  we  all  feel  that,  one  time  or  another;  but  not 
even  God  Himself  can  call  back  a  word  that  is  once 
said." 

A  silence  fell,  which  lasted  until  the  light  began  to 
grow  dim.  Aunt  Dickson  was  wandering  down  who  knows 
what  forgotten  paths  in  which  there  was  no  memory  of 
Pauline,  while  Pauline  herself  stared  out  of  the  window 
at  the  darkening  street,  feeling  that  sense  of  dull  unhap- 


PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT  127 

piness  which  ushers  in  agony  of  mind,  as  does  an  uneasy 
torpor  some  physical  illness. 

She  watched  the  lamplighter  come  forth  with  his  little 
ladder  and  kindle  sparks  of  light  among  the  shadows;  it 
all  seemed  meaningless  and  yet  charged  with  fate,  as  trifles 
do  at  such  a  time. 

Then  Aunt  Dickson  awoke  from  the  half  doze  into 
which  she  had  fallen  and  said  cheerfully — 

"Come,  Pauline,  it's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk.  If 
you  are  going  always  to  think  twenty  times  before  you 
speak  once,  you  may  as  well  be  dumb  for  all  the  fun  you  '11 
make  in  the  world." 

"Fun!"  said  Pauline,  unconsciously  echoing  Mrs. 
Chubb.  "What's  fun?  You  can  be  an  ass  and  a  prophet 
at  the  same  time  if  you  are  only  solemn  enough." 

' '  Fun  is  the  sunshine  of  life, ' '  said  Aunt  Dickson.  ' '  It 
makes  just  the  same  difference  to  a  grey  life  as  sunshine 
does  to  a  grey  street." 

"It  has  led  me  into  saying  many  things  to  amuse  you 
that  I  ought  never  to  have  said,"  retorted  Pauline.  "I 
have  grown  to  be  a  gossip.  I  will  never  tell  you  anything 
again." 

But  before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth  she  re- 
pented them,  and  the  hurt  look  on  Aunt  Dickson 's  big, 
kindly  face,  caused  her  to  add  hastily,  "Oh!  I  didn't  mean 
that.  I  simply  love  coming  in  and  telling  you  what  I 
have  seen.  Every  time  I  come  up  the  steps  I  think  this  is 
home,  and  here  is  somebody  waiting  for  me." 

"But  you  blame  me  all  the  same,  Pauline?" 

"I  don't.    There  is  no  one  to  blame  but  myself." 

"I  shall  not  sleep  a  wink  to-night,  troubling  about  it," 
said  Aunt  Dickson. 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Pauline,  trying  now  to  cover  up 
the  truth.  "As  you  say,  we  don't  know  that  our  story 
has  anything  at  all  to  do  with  Unwin's  loss  of  the  ap- 
pointment." 

Thus  the  tables  were  turned,  and  Pauline  now  became 


128  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  one  to  soothe  and  reassure,  because  a  bad  night  meant 
a  great  deal  in  Aunt  Dickson's  state  of  health  and  must 
be  avoided  at  all  costs.  Finally,  the  tortoise-tail  was 
touched,  and  Aunt  Dickson  resumed  cheerful  command 
of  the  daily  round  again.  Eva  entered  to  clear  away  the 
tea-things  which  still  stood  about  in  the  twilit  room,  and 
when  Pauline  followed  her  into  the  kitchen  with  the  cake- 
stand  she  remarked  casually — 

"Sorry  I  was  late  back  from  the  butcher's,  but  I  got 
talking  to  Mrs.  Chubb.  She  says  Mr.  Unwin  hasn't  got- 
ten that  job  he  was  after.  She  worked  at  Vicarage  to- 
day and  heard  the  news  there." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Pauline,  beginning  to  put  the 
little  yellow  cakes  away  in  round  black  japanned  tins. 

"They  seem  to  say  he  has  something  else  to  go  to," 
continued  Eva.  "But  anyway,  he  would  never  hang 
round  waiting  for  help  from  other  people.  He's  the 
independent  sort  that  wouldn't  get  much  if  he  did.  They 
say  the  Lord  helps  them  that  help  themselves,  and  it's 
a  jolly  good  thing  He  does,  for  the  neighbours  won't. 
They'll  give  all  they've  got  to  give  to  somebody  as  sits 
in  a  lump  and  cries." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Pauline. 

"Don't  you?  Well,  look  about  you  a  bit  then,  Miss! 
And  Mr.  Unwin 's  like  us  Martins  in  that,  I  bet  a  button. 
He'd  rather  be  picked  at  than  pitied."  She  paused.  "But 
he's  got  another  post.  Mrs.  Chubb  heard  them  say  so. 
Somewhere  in  Africa.  It'll  be  a  change  from  Wendle- 
bury." 

Eva  lifted  the  kettle  off  the  fire,  so  there  was  silence 
for  a  moment,  with  the  red  firelight  shining  on  the 
kitchen  fender  and  on  the  japanned  box,  and  the  rich 
fragrance  of  cakes  made  from  country  butter  and  fresh 
eggs.  "He's  got  the  job  because  the  last  man  died;  seems 
it's  an  unhealthy  part  .  .  .  the  one  afore  that  died  too, 
so  they  said.  Mr.  Unwin  wants  a  good  heart  to  go,  doesn't 
he?  But  men  doesn't  think  much  about  things  like  that." 


PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT  129 

"Did  they  ..."  Pauline  broke  off  and  then  went  on 
again,  "did  they  say  anything  more  about  it?" 

"No,  but  I  dessay  Mr.  Unwin  is  a  bit  too  flighty-like 
for  Lord  South  water,"  suggested  Eva.  "There's  allus 
tongues  wagging;  nothing  you  can  lay  hold  on,  you  know, 
but  that's  no  help.  I'd  a  deal  rather  have  somebody  say 
I'd  a  wooden  leg  straight  out  than  go  hinting  there  was 
something  funny  about  me  figure.  I  could  give  'em  a  kick 
and  show  'em  that  I  was  all  right.  But  you  can't  fight 
nothing;  it's  like  fighting  against  a  fog." 

"But  surely  the  Vicar  does  not  believe  any  harm  of 
Mr.  Unwin?" 

"No.  He  took  Chubb  and  drove  over  this  morning  to 
see  Lord  Southwater  directly  he  heard,  but  it  wasn't  no 
good."  Eva  looked  kindly  at  Pauline.  "Never  mind, 
Miss,  you  like  hot  weather.  Or  if  not,  there's  as  good  fish, 
in  the  sea  as  ever  come  out  of  it.  Young  men's  all  right, 
but  as  my  poor  mother  used  to  say  when  mine  all  seemed 
to  come  to  nothing  somehow,  'Eva/  she  says,  'some  can 
keep  'em  and  some  can't;  and  if  you  can't  you'd  best  let 
'em  go  graceful.'  '  She  paused,  searching  in  her  good 
heart  for  comfort.  "I'm  on'y  tell  you  what  I  tell  myself. 
Providence  meant  us  all  to  walk  out,  because  He  gave  us 
them  kind  of  feelings,  but  He  didn't  mean  us  all  to  get 
married,  else  He'd  ha'  provided  enough  men  to  go  round." 

She  looked  anxiously  into  Pauline's  white  face  and 
was  relieved  to  see  a  smile. 

"Well,  Eva,  perhaps  we  shall  be  two  gay  old  maids 
together;  who  knows?" 

"There  isn't  any  old  maids  now,"  said  Eva.  "We've 
given  up  letting  the  men  think  we  should  be  thankful  for 
the  worst  of  'em,  and  we'll  soon  let  'em  know  we'll  go 
without  altogether  unless  we  can  have  the  best  of  'em." 
She  settled  her  cap  and  gazed  out  defiantly  at  Pauline, 
her  own  long,  pale  features  all  alight.  "I'm  a  bachelor 
girl;  I  am.  I  aren't  going  to  let  the  thought  of  not  get- 
ting married  down  me." 


130  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"It's  not  ..."  began  Pauline,  then  she  saw  the  im- 
possibility of  saying  anything  about  the  matter  to  Eva. 
"Well,  I  hope  Mr.  Unwin  may  like  Africa." 

"Don't  you  worry,"  said  Eva.  "Change — that's  what 
men  like.  And  it  isn't  any  use  breaking  your  heart  be- 
cause nature  didn't  make  'em  different.  There's  Mr.  Un- 
win now,  as  pleasant  a  gentleman  as  ever  stepped,  but 
he'll  walk  out  with  you  of  an  afternoon  and  go  and  see 
Miss  Lambert  of  an  evening.  And  who  blames  him?  I 
don't.  No  more  than  I  blames  a  bull  for  bellering.  You 
want  to  blame  nature." 

This  philosophy,  however,  was  lost  sight  of  by  Pauline 
in  the  shock  of  finding  out  that  her  most  secret  and  sacred 
feelings  were  known  as  publicly  as  the  advertisements  for 
chicken-houses  and  hay  in  the  Wendlebury  Herald.  It 
seemed  to  her  odious,  shameful;  she  longed,  as  she  sat 
playing  draughts  with  Aunt  Dickson,  to  turn  her  back  on 
Wendlebury  for  ever.  Only  her  warm,  living  sense  of 
gratitude,  a  rare  quality  belonging  only  to  souls  that  are 
fundamentally  generous,  enabled  her  to  contemplate  a 
series  of  evenings  such  as  this  one. 

But  when  she  was  once  alone  in  her  own  room,  all 
other  thoughts  were  swamped  by  the  fear  that  she  had 
injured  the  man  she  loved.  Her  delicate  elusiveness  had 
kept  her  free  from  those  thrills  and  half  joys  which  some 
girls  know  as  soon  as  they  are  past  childhood,  and  now 
true  love  came  to  her  with  all  the  strength  and  freshness 
of  the  first  time.  It  was  like  a  blind  man  who  should 
first  see  the  sun  rise  across  the  Egyptian  desert  near  the 
temple  of  Hathor  .  .  .  the  whole  wonder  and  glory  of 
dawn  revealed  at  once. 

And  now,  piercing  through  that  love,  came  the  sharp 
suspicion  that  she  had  been  the  one  to  take  from  Unwin  his 
chance  in  life;  and  few  men  have  more  than  one.  She 
tossed  about  in  a  fever  of  remorse  and  powerlessness.  If 
she  could  only  take  back  what  she  had  said!  She  must 


PAULINE  SEES  A  PAGEANT  131 

take  it  back.  There  must  be  some  way.  God  did  not  so 
punish  men  for  a  chance  word. 

Then  common-sense  told  her  that  God  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  He  works  in  a  majestic  order — seed  and 
fruit — cause  and  effect.  He  leaves  us  free. 

She  ceased  weakly  to  blame  God  and  blamed  herself, 
and  those  who  do  that  have  reached  a  stepping-stone. 
They  are  no  longer  immersed  in  the.  Slough  of  Despond, 
however  they  may  agonise. 

And  it  was  indeed  agony  that  Pauline  lived  through 
that  night.  Her  fevered  imagination  threw  terrible  pic- 
tures on  the  darkness,  giant  distorted  shadows  like  those 
cast  by  a  candle  on  a  blank  wall.  She  saw  the  poor 
servant-girl  of  whom  Eva  had  once  spoken,  floating  face 
upwards  on  the  green  surface  of  the  pond.  She  saw  the 
tragic  company  of  great  men  who  have  been  hounded  out 
of  life  by  bitter  tongues.  •  The  tales  she  had  read  of  them 
were  imbued  with  a  strange  reality  in  passing  through  her 
mind;  her  thoughts  were  fused  by  some  action  of  the 
nerves  into  pictures.  It  was  a  most  dreadful  pageant  of 
gossip  that  she  witnessed,  lying  on  her  bed  in  that  quiet 
room.  And  over  and  over  again,  pushed  vehemently  away 
but  returning  always  like  a  refrain  made  visible,  came 
the  picture  of  Unwin  stretched  gaunt  under  a  burning 
sky  with  a  great  bird  flying  towards  him. 

She  knew  well  enough  that  if  he  did  also  die  of  fever, 
like  the  previous  man  holding  the  post,  it  would  probably 
be  in  a  tent  or  in  his  own  bungalow.  This  vision  was 
only  something  half  remembered  from  a  picture-book  seen 
in  childhood  and  now  brought  to  the  surface  of  her  mind. 
But  the  horror  was  none  the  less  real.  She  saw  the  great 
bird  hovering  and  felt  that  it  was  she  who  had  sent  Unwin 
out  to  die. 

But  with  the  first  streak  of  dawn  these  nightmare 
visions  cleared  away.  For  Pauline  belonged  to  the  mod- 
ern type  of  woman  who  no  longer  resigns  herself  to  en- 
dure until  she  has  tried  with  all  her  powers  to  make  things 


132  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

better.  And  though  she  was  overstrung  and  off  the  nor- 
mal after  the  experience  of  the  night,  this  only  so  far 
affected  her  as  to  make  a  plan  seem  natural  and  feasible 
which  would,  in  the  ordinary  way,  have  seemed  to  her 
useless  if  not  ridiculous. 

So  it  was  in  a  hopeful  mood  that  she  breakfasted, 
sent  Eva  to  order  Chubb 's  cab  and  entered  Aunt  Dick- 
son's  bedroom,  saying  with  a  sort  of  high-strung  casual- 
ness — 

"It  is  a  lovely  morning.  I  will  take  those  baby-clothes 
to  Mrs.  Dunn  to-day." 

"You'll  have  to  have  Chubb,"  said  Aunt  Dickson. 
"Poor  Agnes,  she  would  have  been  better  off  as  my  serv- 
ant still  than  living  at  the  world 's  end  on  a  pound  a  week 
with  five  children  and  a  husband  fond  of  beer.  But  she 
would  have  him. ' '  Aunt  Dickson  sighed  and  looked  wist- 
fully at  Pauline.  "If  girls  only  knew  when  they  were 
well  off!" 

"Then  the  world  would  come  to  an  end,  Aunt  Dick- 
son." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  "you  ask  Agnes  to-day, 
Pauline ;  she  '11  tell  you  whether  it  is  not  all  a  case  of  car- 
rot and  donkey." 

"With  romance  for  the  carrot?"  said  Pauline  lightly. 

"With  romance  for  the  carrot,"  repeated  Aunt  Dick- 
son  heavily. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PAULINE  INTERVENES 

HUBB  'S  cab  acted  as  an  incentive  to  quiet  reflection, 
the  even  clop !  clop  !  of  Griselda  's  hoofs — which  looked 
as  if  they  should  have  worn  elastic-sided  boots — gradually 
soothed  Pauline's  mind,  and  by  the  time  she  reached  the 
cottage  where  Aunt  Dickson's  gifts  were  to  be  deposited, 
she  was  already  wondering  at  the  fears  and  imaginings 
of  the  past  night. 

The  woman  came  out  with  a  child  in  her  arms  and 
two  others,  sunburnt  and  golden-haired,  clinging  to  her 
skirts.  Roses  climbed  about  tihe  doorway,  and  within 
could  be  seen  a  kitchen  with  a  red  brick  floor.  But  it 
was  not  so  much  these  outward  things  which  made  Pau- 
line see  that  Aunt  Dickson's  old  servant  had  been  wise 
to  leave  comfortable  servitude  for  poverty  and  child-bear- 
ing and  hard  work;  it  was  the  woman's  grateful:  "Mrs. 
Dickson's  the  best  mistress  a  girl  ever  had;  so  she  is;  but 
you  like  to  have  a  home  of  your  own. ' ' 

As  Pauline  went  back  to  her  cab,  the  words  followed* 
her — a  home  of  your  own.  She  saw  now  that  it  was  the 
very  spirit  of  home,  brooding  over  that  little  cottage,  which, 
made  it  so  lovely.  The  same  spirit  has  made  beautiful 
thousands  and  thousands  of  houses,  great  and  small,  all 
up  and  down  England.  No  one  can  see  the  process,  but 
the  result  shines  out  between  green  branches  and  behind 
little  flower  gardens  everywhere.  .  .  .  We  must  be  very 
careful  that  we  do  not  scare  away  the  Spirit  of  Home  as 
we  have  the  fairies. 

Pauline  paused  a  moment,  looking  back,  her  pale,  nar- 

133 


134  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

row,  delicate  face  alight,  her  deep  eyes  shining.  She  was 
one  of  the  lucky  ones  who  are  attuned  to  such  beauty  and 
respond  to  it  as  some  others  respond  to  a  strain  of  music ; 
and  her  own  rather  homeless  life  had  deepened  her  ap- 
preciation of  this  particular  scene. 

"Looks  as  if  it  'ud  be  damp  i'  winter,"  remarked 
Chubb.  And  Pauline  started,  coming  down  upon  realities 
with  a  sort  of  bump. 

"I  want  to  go  on  to  Lord  South  water 's.  It  is  only 
three  miles  further,"  she  said. 

Chubb  mounted  his  box  without  speaking,  then  re- 
marked over  his  shoulder — 

"It'll  be  no  go." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Pauline,  naturally  sur- 
prised. 

"I  mean  Mrs.  Delamere's  there.  You  don't  get  no 
subscriptions  out  of  Lord  Southwater  when  she  is.  Makes 
him  in  a  bad  mood.  I  brought  Vicar  back  yesterday  with 
a  flea  in  his  ear."  He  paused.  "You'd  best  go  home." 

"I  prefer  to  go  on,  now  I  am  so  far,"  said  Pauline. 

"Very  well,"  answered  Chubb.  "Don't  say  I  didn't 
warn  you." 

So  the  cab  rumbled  on  again  between  the  flowery  hedge- 
rows, but  Pauline  no  longer  felt  soothed  by  the  monot- 
onous sounds  and  her  mind  began  to  work  with  feverish 
energy  rehearsing  beforehand  what  she  would  say  to  Lord 
Southwater.  At  last  the  tall  iron  gates  came  into  sight, 
and  Chubb  spoke  once  more  over  his  shoulder — 

"Here  I  stops!" 

"But  I  want  to  go  to  the  house,"  objected  Pauline. 

"Very  like.  So  did  Vicar.  But  they  made  fun  o'  my 
cab  and  my  mare,  them  shawfers  did,  and  I  ain't  going 
to  stan'  it  again,"  pronounced  Chubb. 

"There  may  not  be  any  chauffeurs,"  said  Pauline. 

"There  is.  I  seed  two  cars  turn  in.  I  won't  have  my 
cab  and  my  mare  made  game  on  by  shawfers;  jumped  up 
chaps  that's  allus  on  their  dignity  because  they  haven't 


PAULINE  INTERVENES  135 

gotten  any  sattled  place  in  the  world  yet."  He  paused, 
growing  purple  and  blowing  out  his  cheeks.  "They  didn't 
only  make  game  o'  my  cab;  they  made  game  o'  me!" 

Griselda  gave  a  comprehensive  quiver  which  shook  her 
harness,  and  it  was  as  though  she  said,  in  words:  "How 
could  they  be  guilty  of  such  sacrilege?"  Chubb  only 
flickered  her  with  the  rein  and  said  gruffly:  "Whoa, 
mare!"  But  he  was  touched  to  reiterate:  "I  won't  go 
up  to  the  house  for  nobody  living." 

Pauline  was  therefore  obliged  to  alight  and  make  her 
way  on  foot  through  the  imposing  portals  and  along  the 
broad,  perfectly-kept  drive  which  went  direct  and  straight, 
like  Lord  Southwater's  earthly  path,  between  prosperous 
smooth  lawns  and  discreetly  blooming  flower  beds.  As 
she  neared  the  house,  repeating  to  herself  with  nervous 
desperation  the  speech  already  prepared,  she  caught  sight 
of  Mrs.  Delamere  also  hurrying  towards  the  house,  but 
careful  not  to  look  in  her  direction. 

Instantly  the  truth  flashed  into  Pauline's  mind.  Mrs. 
Delamere  had  seen  her  arrival  from  some  part  of  the  park 
or  garden,  had  guessed  that  she  wras  going  to  speak  to 
Lord  Southwater  about  Unwin  and  was  anxious  to  pre- 
vent it. 

There  was  no  reason  why  Pauline  should  know  this,  but 
she  belonged  to  that  numerous  company  of  women  who  do 
know  things  without  being  told,  and  she  began  to  hurry 
faster.  Upon  this  Mrs.  Delamere,  still  pretending  not 
to  see  Pauline,  also  increased  her  speed.  It  became  a 
neck-and-neck  race  between  two  ladies  each  anxious  to  pre- 
serve a  dignified  deportment  on  account  of  the  chauffeur 
who  waited  by  the  steps  and  the  butler  dimly  visible  in 
the  gloom  of  the  portico.  Mrs.  Delamere  was  long  of  limb 
and  uncommonly  active,  the  crimson  of  middle  age  invaded 
her  nose,  but  at  a  walking  match  she  was  no  mean  oppon- 
ent, and  had  the  advantage  of  knowing  her  ground.  A 
swift  cross-cut  behind  laurels  brought  her  out  well  ahead 
— never  was  speed  and  majesty  so  combined  in  any  fe- 


136  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

male  over  forty.  Pauline  gave  up  the  contest  and  broke 
into  a  run.  She  felt  Mrs.  Delamere  hard  on  her  track 
as  she  panted  out  breathlessly  to  the  butler — 

"Lord  Southwater!     Urgent  business!" 

"His  lordship  is  expecting  guests  to  luncheon,"  said 
the  butler ;  impressed  by  Pauline 's  hunted  appearance  and 
desperate  sincerity,  as  well  he  might  be. 

Pauline  glanced  round.  Mrs.  Delamere  was  rounding 
the  last  geranium  bed. 

"Oh!"  cried  Pauline,  clasping  those  expressive  hands, 
"please  show  me  in  at  once.  It  is  a  church  matter.  His 
lordship  will  be  willing  to  see  me,  I  know." 

The  butler  also  glanced  at  the  advancing  figure  on  the 
drive  and  some  faint  understanding  of  the  situation  came 
to  him.  He  knew,  at  least,  that  Mrs.  Delamere  did  not 
wish  Pauline  to  see  his  master,  and  he  hated  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere, in  spite  of  her  ingratiating  politeness,  because  she 
had  once  accused  him  behind  his  back  of  stealing  the  port. 
It  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasurable  emotion  to  say  suavely : 
"Walk  this  way,  Madam,"  and  usher  Pauline  into  Lord 
South  water's  study  just  in  the  nick  of  time. 

"I  know  that  lady,"  panted  Mrs.  Delamere  in  the  hall. 
"She  is  my  guest.  Fetch  her  out.  There  has  been  a  mis- 
take." 

"Very  sorry,  Madam,"  said  the  butler  smoothly.  "His 
lordship  will  no  dcubt  bring  the  lady  to  you  directly." 

"Then  I  will  fetch  her  out  myself!"  said  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere. 

But  she  knew,  and  the  butler  also  knew,  that  to  enter 
Lord  South  water's  study  uninvited  was  a  deed  beyond 
Mrs.  Delamere 's  temerity.  She  had  tried  it  once  or  twice 
in  earlier  days  and  had  learned  her  lesson. 

"Yes,  Madam,"  said  the  butler,  retiring  to  repeat  the 
story  elsewhere. 

Mrs.  Delamere  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  frowning  at 
the  great  mahogany  door-panels,  then  she  moved  nearer, 
bent  down  and  applied  her  ear  to  the  keyhole. 


PAULINE  INTERVENES  137 

Lord  Southwater  came  forward  as  Pauline  entered,  his 
hand  pontifically  trifling  with  his  watch-chain.  He  re- 
ceived her  as  if  she  had  been  a  deputation  because  that 
was  his  manner  and  he  would  have  greeted  the  genii 
bursting  from  Aladdin's  lamp  in  just  the  same  way.  But 
he  was  aware,  as  he  would  have  been  then,  of  the  un- 
seemly explosiveness  of  the  entry  into  his  presence. 

"Miss  Westcott!  Pray  sit  down,"  and  he  waited  for 
a  justification. 

Pauline  was  glad  to  sit  down  because  her  knees  were 
shaking  under  her  and  the  carefully  rehearsed  speech 
had  departed  into  limbo,  but  the  urgent  possibility  of 
Mrs.  Delamere  just  behind  caused  her  to  blurt  out  at 
once — 

"I  hear  you  are  not  giving  Mr.  Unwin  the  post.  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  set  the  story  going  about  him.  It 
was  all  a  mistake. ' ' 

Lord  Southwater  glanced  at  the  bell  but  thought  bet- 
ter of  it. 

"I  cannot  discuss  this  matter.  May  I  ask  if  you  have 
come  from  Mr.  Unwin  ? "  he  asked. 

"No.  Oh,  no!"  cried  Pauline.  "You  must  never, 
never  think  that.  He  would  be  simply  furious  with  me 
if  he  knew!" 

"Then "  Lord  South  water's  glance  now  rested  on 

Pauline's  vivid  face.  "You  are  doubtless  engaged  to  be 
married  to  him?" 

"No.  Yes.  That  is,  not  exactly  engaged,"  faltered 
Pauline,  suddenly  realising  that  she  had  as  yet  no  right 
to  defend  her  lover. 

But  she  looked  so  charming  in  her  embarrassment  and 
distress  that  Lord  Southwater — being  a  man  after  all, 
though  so  panoplied  with  virtue — felt  softened  towards 
her. 

"Then  what  is  it  you  want  of  me?"  he  asked,  and 
the  difference  in  his  tone  reaching  Mrs.  Delamere  even 


138  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

through  the  keyhole,  though  the  words  did  not,  she  mur- 
mured "Artful  hussy!" 

"I  want  to  know  why  you  did  not  appoint  Mr.  Un- 
win  to  be  your  architect  as  you  meant  to  do?"  said  Pau- 
line. 

Lord  Southwater  looked  away,  gathering  sternness  from 
the  bust  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  cannot  enter  into  any  explanation,"  he  answered 
stiffly.  "I  have  made  other  arrangements." 

"But  you  promised "  urged  Pauline. 

Lord  Southwater  drew  himself  up. 

"I  made  no  promises.  I  have  never  yet  knowingly 
broken  my  word." 

"You  made  him  believe  he  was  sure  to  have  the  post. 
It  was  a  promise,  in  spirit  if  not  in  the  letter,"  said  Pau- 
line, clasping  her  hands  and  gazing  at  him  with  desperate 
entreaty.  "You  do  see  that,  don't  you?  A  promise  is  a 
promise  if  you  mean  it  so  and  the  other  person  knows 
you  do.  You  wouldn't  wriggle  out  of  it  for  a  little 
thing." 

"I  did  not — er — wriggle  out  of  it  for  a  little  thing," 
responded  Lord  Southwater,  returning  her  glance  with 
dignified  annoyance.  But  that  elusive  quality  in  Pauline 
which  escaped  so  many  chimed  in  with  that  something 
deep  hidden  in  Lord  Southwater  which  made  him  love 
to  keep  and  beautify  old  churches:  an  austere  sensuous- 
ness,  if  it  might  be  so  called,  which  caused  his  glance 
now  to  soften  once  more  as  he  looked  at  the  girl  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  great  carved  settle.  "I  am  sorry  to  state 
that  I  acted  as  I  did  with  an  adequate  reason.  I  can 
say  no  more." 

He  had  remained  standing,  and  now  moved  towards 
the  door  in  token  that  the  matter  was  ended,  but  Pauline 
sat  still. 

"Stop!"  she  said,  a  hand  unconsciously  pressed  on 
her  thudding  heart.  "I  know  why  you  did  it.  You — 
you  heard  a  tale  about  Mr.  Unwin  being  seen  drunk  in 


PAULINE  INTERVENES  139 

his  dress  clothes  in  the  morning,  at  the  doorway  of  the 
Ryeford  Inn." 

Lord  Southwater  looked  at  her  sharply,  then  dropped 
his  eyelids  and  fingered  his  watch-chain.  "I  do  not  listen 
to  gossip." 

"No,  but  when  Mrs.  Delamere  told  you,  you  were  bound 
to  believe,"  said  Pauline  quickly. 

"I  never  said  that  Mrs.  Delamere "  began  Lord 

Southwater. 

"No,  but  it  was,"  said  Pauline. 

"You  can  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  Lord  South- 
water,  his  long,  pink  face  deepening  a  little  in  colour. 

Pauline  rose  and  stood  very  straight  before  him  with 
the  morning  light  on  her  face. 

"I  do  know,"  she  said  breathlessly;  "I  do  know.  Be- 
cause I  was  the  one  who  saw  him." 

"Then  why  .  .  .?"  said  Lord  Southwater,  turning  an- 
other shade  deeper:  still  he  was  charmed  in  spite  of  him- 
self by  that  delicate  vivid  face,  in  shape  a  long  oval  like 
those  of  the  saints  in  the  old  churches,  against  the  dark 
panelling  of  the  wall.  "You  should  not  need  to  ask  in 
that  case." 

"Oh,  that  is  just  why!"  cried  Pauline.  "I — I  made  a 
most  terrible  mistake,  Lord  Southwater.  Mr.  Unwin  was 
not  drunk,  he  was  ill.  He  had  been  sitting  up  for  sev- 
eral nights  with  a  man — a  stranger  at  the  inn  called  John- 
son— and  he  was  worn  out.  He  had  just  come  away  from 
the  death-bed  when  I  saw  him."  She  paused.  "Oh!  I 
wish  my  tongue  had  been  cut  out!  But  I  told  my  aunt 
just  for  something  to  say.  And  I  have  ruined  Mr.  Un- 
win's  life.  He  will  never  have  such  a  chance  again. 
There  are  no  more  such  chances  to  be  had.  And  to  think 
it  was  I  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  interrupted  Lord  Southwater, 
returning  to  the  writing-table.  "You  must  not  blame 
yourself  in  this  way.  I  certainly  did  hear  the  story  to 
which  you  allude,  but  one  story,  whatever  the  source," 


140  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

he  spoke  with  meaning,  "  would  not  suffice  to  make  me 
discard  a  man  whom  I  considered  in  every  way  suitable, 
especially  after  what  had  passed.  No,  I  am  not  acting 
on  that  at  all.  Only  I  made  the  fullest  inquiries  and  I 
regret  to  tell  you — in  the  deepest  confidence — that  the 
result  was  not  satisfactory.  I  heard  from  many  sources 
that  Mr.  Unwin  was  not  such  a  man  as  I  should  select 
for  this  particular  post." 

"But  what  made  you  begin  to  inquire?"  said  Pauline. 

"Well,  in  the  first  instance,  perhaps  it  was  the  incident 
to  which  you  allude,"  admitted  Lord  Southwater.  "Still, 
I  should  have  taken  no  notice  of  it  if  further  investigation 
had  not  proved  ..." 

"Oh!"  cried  Pauline,  "that's  the  worst  of  it.  Nothing 
can  be  proved  either  one  way  or  the  other.  It  is  as  Eva 
said:  gossip  is  like  a  fog  .  .  .  closing  down  .  .  .  shutting 
out  the  truth.  And  yet  you  can't  forget  it.  I  know  he  is 
steady  and  honourable.  I  know  he  does  not  drink.  I'll 
tell  everybody  what  has  happened.  I  don't  care  a  farthing 
what  people  think  of  me." 

"Come,  be  reasonable,"  said  Lord  Southwater,  and 
though  the  words  were  cool,  his  tone  again  gave  pain  to 
Mrs.  Delamere  at  the  keyhole.  "If  you  blazon  all  this 
abroad  you  will  do  Mr.  Unwin  a  great  injury.  He  will 
be  branded  as  a  drunkard  and  a  wastrel  in  the  eyes  of  all 
who  know  him,  for  such  defence  always  defeats  its  own 
object.  Let  me  earnestly  beg  of  you,  if  you  have  a  re- 
gard for  this  young  man,  to  keep  absolutely  silent  about 
the  matter.  That  is  the  one  service  you  can  do  him. ' ' 

"So  I  am  to  keep  quiet  and  bear  this  all  my  life?" 
said  Pauline.  "No,  Lord  Southwater,  I  can't  do  it.  It 
would  kill  me!" 

She  stared  at  him  with  blazing,  dark  eyes  in  a  face  as 
white  as  death,  and  Lord  Southwater  felt  uncomfort- 
able. The  presence  of  great  emotions  was  to  him  like 
seeing  some  one  insufficiently  clad,  and  yet  he  was  moved 
to  awkward  compassion. 


PAULINE  INTERVENE  141 

"If  you  wish  to  serve  Mr.  Unwin,"  he  repeated,  "you 
will  say  nothing.  You  can  only  do  him  harm.  And  I 
hear  he  has  already  obtained  another  appointment,"  he 
added. 

"Yes."  Pauline  moistened  her  dry  lips.  "There  is 
often  a  vacancy  in  that  place.  The  last  man  died  when 
he  had  been  out  six  months." 

"That  may  happen  anywhere,"  said  Lord  Southwater, 
and  now  he  went  again  with  determination  towards  the 
door.  "I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  can  do  nothing."  He 
opened  the  door. 

There  was  a  suppressed  feminine  "Oh!"  a  rustle,  and 
Lord  Southwater 's  stern:  "Marian,  what  brings  you 
here?" 

"The  Bracegirdles  .  .  .  just  arrived  .  .  .  knew  you 
would  not  wish  to  keep  them  waiting,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Delamere,  nonplussed  for  once. 

""Where  is  the  butler?"  demanded  Lord  Southwater. 

"I  came  ...  I  thought  ..."  faltered  Mrs.  Delamere: 
then  she  caught  sight  of  Pauline's  tear-bright  eyes  and 
emotional  look  generally,  and  became  herself  again.  "I 
had  an  instinct  that  I  was  needed,"  she  added  with  dig- 
nity. "I  am  the  only  woman  you  have  to  help  you  in 
the  world,  and  my  woman's  instinct  told  me  to  come  to 
you."  She  paused  again.  "I  will  speak  to  Miss  "West- 
cott  for  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Pauline,  her  voice  very  distinct 
and  steady,  "but  Lord  Southwater  has  been  most  kind. 
He  has  already  given  me  the  information  I  came  to  seek." 

Mrs.  Delamere  glanced  from  her  brother-in-law  to  Pau- 
line, devoured  with  curiosity.  What  could  have  happened 
in  the  room  to  make  the  girl  look  like  that?  And  Lord 
Southwater 's  kind  voice,  rising  and  falling  .  .  .  wrhat  did 
it  all  mean?  She  smiled,  flashing  all  her  teeth  upon  the 
pair  of  them,  and  put  a  hard,  jewelled  hand  on  Pauline's 
arm. 

"Come  .      .  a  little  refreshment  . 


142  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Pauline.  "I  have  Chubb  wait- 
ing outside  the  gate."  But  her  glance  of  unconscious 
entreaty  stirred  some  latent  chivalry  in  Lord  South  water's 
nature,  and  he  hastened  to  say  in  a  tone  which  none  in 
that  house  dared  dispute — 

"Marian,  kindly  entertain  the  Bracegirdles  until  I  can 
come  to  them."  Then  he  turned  to  Pauline:  "I  will 
see  you  to  your  carriage. ' ' 

So  the  ladies  shook  hands  and  Pauline  stepped  forth 
with  her  cavalier,  feeling  as  if  she  were  taking  part  in 
some  high  municipal  function  and  that  some  one,  some- 
where, must  be  going  to  make  a  long,  tedious  speech  be- 
ginning and  ending  with  a  cough.  The  cough  came,  and 
so  aptly  with  her  incoherent  thoughts  as  to  be  almost 
startling. 

"Ahem!     The  geraniums  are  doing  well  this  year." 

"So  it  is  no  use?"  said  Pauline.  "That  is  your  last 
word!" 

Lord  Southwater  frowned,  feeling  this  to  be  wanting 
in  good  taste. 

"I  cannot  discuss  the  subject  further." 

"I  shall  tell  Mr.  Unwin  I  have  been,"  said  Pauline. 

"Then  you  will  subject  him  to  a  great  humiliation,  in 
addition  to  his  natural  disappointment,  and  that  will 
wound  him  more  than  what  has  gone  before.  A  man  never 
forgets  a  hurt  to  his  pride. ' '  Lord  Southwater  paused.  ' '  I 
liked  Mr.  Unwin,  otherwise  you  may  be  sure  I  should  not 
trouble  ...  I  am  not  given  to  argument." 

"No,"  said  Pauline,  convinced  at  last.  "I  know  that 
the  gods  don't  argue.  Oh!  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude. 
But  if  ever  in  your  life  you  come  to  have  injured  some 
one  and  can  never  make  things  right,  you  will  perhaps 
understand. ' ' 

"I  trust  I  should  never  injure  any  one  unjustly," 
said  Lord  Southwater,  and  it  was  perhaps  not  his  fault 
that  he  felt  himself  the  living  embodiment  of  justice. 

"I'm  not  blaming  you,"  said  Pauline  sadly.     "I  am 


PAULINE  INTERVENES  143 

blaming  myself.  I  meant  no  harm.  The  Wendlebury 
people  meant  no  harm  either.  I  don't  suppose  one  per- 
son in  ten  thousand  would  actually  want  to  do  any  real 
hurt  to  another.  But  the  best  of  us  don't  mind  saying 
things  every  day  that  bring  sorrow  and  shame  and  even 
death  to  our  neighbours.  We  don't  mean  it,  but  things 
happen  so." 

Pauline  forgot  Lord  Southwater  as  she  spoke,  with 
all  his  hedged-in  susceptibilities;  she  was  simply  obliged 
to  release  her  pressing  thoughts  to  anything  that  had 
ears.  But  that  estimable  peer  was  again  conscious  of  an 
awkwardness  in  seeing  the  human  soul  insufficiently  clad 
...  he  liked  bombazine  and  whalebone  .  .  .  and  he  was  so 
glad  to  see  Chubb 's  rotund  figure  between  the  tall,  iron 
gateway  that  he  called  out  affably — 

"Morning,  Chubb,"  and  walked  forward,  speaking  with 
condescension  of  the  weather.  Then  he  said  farewell  to 
Pauline,  closed  the  cab-door  with  his  large  well-kept  hands, 
and  saying  to  Chubb:  "You  have  had  a  long  wait,  but 
your  horse  seems  a  patient  creature,"  he  returned  up  his 
own  wide  drive  between  the  smooth  lawns  and  neat  flower- 
beds, feeling  that  he  had  behaved  exceedingly  well. 

Chubb  shook  the  reins.  "Gee-up!"  then  spoke  to  Pau- 
line sitting  behind.  "My  horse  a  patient  creature  .  .  . 
and  his  father  owned  Bendigo ! ' ' 

Pauline  nodded  vaguely,  leaning  back  in  the  corner  of 
the  old  cab.  She  felt  mentally  and  physically  spent  after 
her  sleepless  night  and  the  mental  exertion  of  this  morn- 
ing, but  her  nerves  were  in  that  excited  state  which  rushes 
half  a  dozen  trains  of  thought  at  once  through  the  mind, 
where  they  clash  together  at  intervals  in  an  aching  con- 
fusion. 

A  light  shower  fell,  and  through  it  Wendlebury  looked 
very  peaceful  and  lovely,  set  in  the  midst  of  the  green 
country.  And  yet  Pauline  saw  it  as  a  place  of  strife, 
where  every  one  was  stabbing  his  neighbour  secretly,  with 


144  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  evil-enchanted  dagger  which  may  not  hurt  at  the  time 
but  festers  afterwards. 

This  view  was  so  dreadful  to  her  that  she  accepted 
Chubb 's  halfpenny  paper  with  thankfulness  and  tried  to 
fix  her  mind  on  it,  but  there,  too,  she  seemed  to  see  men 
running  gleefully  to  stab  their  fellow-men,  or  rejoicing 
when  they  espied  some  one  else  doing  it  ...  the  world 
and  "Wendlebury  all  the  same  .  .  .  one  stupendous  gos- 
sip shop.  .  .  . 

As  they  neared  the  town,  Chubb  suddenly  grunted, 
staring  at  Griselda's  ears:  "You  didn't  get  it,  then?" 

"Get  what?"  said  Pauline  starting. 

"The  subscription — or  what  it  was  you  went  for." 

"No,"  said  Pauline. 

"Ah!"  said  Chubb.  "I  was  right.  I  generally  am. 
You  should  ha'  taken  my  advice  and  waited  until  Mrs. 
Delamere  had  gone  away.  But  you  would  use  your  own 
judgment.  It's  when  females  gets  to  using  their  own  judg- 
ment that  things  all  goes  wrong.  Gee-up ! ' '  And  Griselda 
flicked  her  tail  gently,  as  one  who  should  say:  "Look  at 
me!  Here  you  behold  the  perfect  type  evolved  by  being 
the  property  of  a  Chubb." 

The  cab  rumbled  down  the  familiar  street  between  the 
iron  railings  with  the  little  prim  gardens  behind  them  and 
Pauline  alighted  at  her  own  house. 

"Chubb,"  she  said,  nervously  fumbling  with  her  purse, 
"this  has  been  rather  a  long  round  for  your  mare."  And 
she  placed  an  extra  ten  shillings  in  his  hand  beyond  the 
fare  to  the  old  servant's  cottage  which  had  been  paid  by 
Aunt  Dickson. 

"Thank  you,  Miss,"  said  Chubb  woodenly,  showing 
no  emotion  as  a  matter  of  principle.  It  is  doubtful  if 
his  self-control  would  have  failed  had  he  been  offered  ten 
pounds. 

"And  .  .  .  Chubb  ...  It  might  be  as  well  not  to  men- 
tion that  we  went  to  Lord  South  water's.  One  .  .  one 


PAULINE  INTERVENES  145 

does  not  care  for  it  to  be  known  when  an  errand  is  a  fail- 
ure.   You  quite  understand  that." 

''Oh!  ay,"  said  Chubb,  softened  by  the  tip.  "Bless 
your  life,  Miss,  you  aren't  the  only  one  as  has  asked  me 
to  keep  quiet — not  by  a  long  chalk.  There's  more  than 
you  think  for  goes  on  in  Wendlebury." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    MEETING 

PAULINE   went  into   the  kitchen   after  the  mid-day 
meal.    Eva  was  washing  up  the  crockery  and  did  not 
expect  to  be  interrupted. 

''Kettle's  on,  if  Missus  wants  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said, 
rather  shortly. 

' '  Eva— ' '  Pauline  hesitated.    ' '  Has  Mr.  Unwin  called  ? ' ' 

"No.  Missus  would  have  told  you  if  he  had.  What 
should  he  come  for  in  a  morning?" 

"You're  quite  sure  he  did  not  inquire  at  the  door?" 

' '  Bless  my  soul ! ' '  said  Eva.  ' '  D  'you  think  I  shouldn  't 
know  -the  difference  between  him  and  butcher's  boy?  I 
may  be  getting  on,  as  the  next-door  girl  says,  but  I  haven 't 
lost  me  eyesight  yet."  With  that  she  dashed  down  a 
bowl  and  rattled  some  plates  together. 

Pauline  turned  away,  making  no  further  remark,  and 
Eva's  irritability  subsided. 

"Well,  Miss,"  she  said,  drying  her  hands,  "kettle  boils 
now.  Let  me  make  you  a  good  cup  and  go  you  and  lie 
down  a  bit.  You  look  tired." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Pauline. 

"There!  You've  taken  the  hig!"  said  Eva.  "I  did 
speak  a  bit  hasty  but  I  meant  nothing  by  it.  On'y  us 
Martins  allus  was  ones  for  being  left  alone  after  our  din- 
ners. We're  made  like  that  and  we  can't  help  it.  Many's 
the  time  I've  seen  my  poor  mother  lock  the  lot  on  us  into 
the  wood-shed  till  she'd  had  her  bit  o'  nap,  and  if  we 
cried  and  fought,  we  did." 

146 


THE  MEETING  147 

She  was  moving  about  quickly  while  she  spoke  and  now 
handed  Pauline  a  cup  of  tea. 

"That'll  buck  you  up  a  bit,"  she  remarked.  "You 
didn't  have  no  dinner  to  speak  of."  She  dropped  her 
voice  and  drew  nearer  still.  "Mark  my  words,  Miss,  no 
man's  worth  pining  for.  Eat  your  meals  regular  and  you 
can  stand  up  against  what  comes,  as  my  poor  Mother  said 
when  my  second  young  man  give  me  the  go-by.  Ay ;  I  've 
a  lot  to  thank  her  for.  It's  easy-come,  easy-go  with  me 
and  the  fellers  now,  and  if  you  take  my  advice,  Miss  Pau- 
line, having  no  mother  of  your  own,  you'll  do  the  same. 
Take  a  leaf  outer  their  book,"  she  concluded. 

"They  are  not  all  the  same,"  said  Pauline,  putting 
down  her  cup. 

"Miss  Pauline,"  said  Eva  solemnly,  "when  sweet- 
hearting  was  first  invented,  that  remark  of  yours  was  in- 
vented to  go  with  it.  To  tempt  you  on  like.  There's 
a-many  such  things  in  the  world  .  .  .  deep,  they  are  .  .  . 
you  want  to  be  on  the  look-out."  She  paused  and  low- 
ered her  tone  still  further.  "I've  thought  about  it,  being 
so  much  by  myself,  and  you  mustn't  take  it  for  a  rude 
remark,  Miss  Pauline,  when  I  say  that  sweethearting  leads 
to  families  and  families  keeps  the  world  a-going.  So 
there  has  to  be  sweethearting.  But  you  don't  want  to 
take  any  particular  feller  too  serious.  I'm  not  saying  a 
word  against  Mr.  Unwin,  but  I  lay  he  hasn't  gone  with- 
out his  dinner  to-day  on  your  account.  And  if  he  doesn't 
come  to  see  you,  there's  them  he  does  see.  Ask  Mrs. 
Chubb!" 

"You  mean  Miss  Lambert?"  said  Pauline,  ashamed 
of  herself  for  saying  it  and  yet  unable  to  refrain. 

"I  do, "  said  Eva.  ' ' The  smoking  fortune-telling  hussy, 
her!  Not  that  she  mayn't  be  a  blessing  in  disguise,  for 
there  would  be  no  sense  in  you  marrying  Unwin  now  he 
hasn't  got  the  job  and  is  going  to  a  country  full  of 
snakes  and  tigers.  As  my  poor  Mother  often  said,  'When 


148  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

you're  forced  to  have  a  riddance,  you're  lucky  when  you 
can  see  it's  a  good  riddance.'  ' 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Pauline,  feebly,  from  the  kitchen-door, 
"that  Miss  Lambert  seems  kind-hearted." 

"That's  what  they  call  every  scaly  wag  as  robs  his  fam- 
ily to  treat  his  pals,"  retorted  Eva.  "They  may  write 
what  they  like  on  my  gravestone,  but  if  they  put  that  I'll 
come  back  and  haunt  'em." 

All  these  warnings,  however,  fell  on  deaf  ears,  because 
a  woman  in  love  is  panoplied  as  by  shining  armour  against 
reason,  entreaty  or  argument. 

So  Pauline  went  down  the  quiet  street  with  a  deter- 
mination to  seek  her  lover  as  he  did  not  come  to  her.  She 
thought  that  his  pride  probably  made  him  unwilling  to 
seem  as  if  he  had  any  claim  on  her  in  the  changed  circum- 
stances. She  was  to  be  free  to  choose  anew  now  his  bril- 
liant prospects  had  all  vanished  and  he  could  only  offer 
the  girl  he  loved  a  long,  uncertain  period  of  waiting. 

But  her  heart  beat  high  as  she  approached  this  moment 
towards  which  every  thought  and  feeling  had  been  strain- 
ing ever  since  she  first  heard  the  news.  She  had  pictured 
it  a  hundred  times,  and  had  dreamed  what  he  would  say 
and  she  would  answer  in  so  real  a  fashion  that  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  the  interview  had  taken  place.  When  she  saw 
him  coming  along  the  street  an  odd  sense  of  staleness 
mingled  with  her  wild,  passionate  anticipation. 

And  he  saw  her  with  a  revulsion  of  feeling  which  almost 
caused  him  to  go  back  and  avoid  her.  Her  pale  face 
and  burning  eyes  in  that  little  narrow  street  were  not 
more  real  and  vivid  than  they  had  been  through  the  long 
hours  of  his  sleepless  night,  yet  they  were  so  strangely 
different  .  .  .  less  near,  less  tenderly  human  .  .  .  showing 
overwhelmingly  that  delicate  elusiveness  which  was  a 
feature  of  her  soul  beneath  all  her  frankness.  And  just 
in  that  moment  her  reserve  was  ready  to  break  down  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  with  a  completeness  which  ex- 
pansive natures  can  never  experience. 


THE  MEETING  149 

But  her  knowledge  that  he  owed  his  misfortune  to  her 
gossiping  tongue  stiffened  up  those  barriers  again  before 
she  reached  him,  leaving  her  awkward,  stilted,  constrained. 

"Well  met!"  he  said  lightly,  avoiding,  as  it  were,  the 
very  hem  of  her  heart's  garment  in  his  desire  to  leave  her 
free. 

"I  hoped  to  see  you,"  she  said  awkwardly.  "I'm  so 
sorry  about  Lord  Southwater!" 

His  quick,  hurt  pride  winced  at  the  touch,  and  yet  a 
moment  before  he  had  longed  for  her  pity  and  sympathy 
with  the  simplicity  of  a  hurt  child  wanting  its  mother. 
It  happens  so  when  two  people  love  each  other  and  one 
is  keeping  back  a  secret  which  preoccupies  the  mind.  All 
the  spoken  words  are  enough,  but  the  much  more  impor- 
tant unspoken  conversation  becomes  meaningless  and  jang- 
led. For  in  love,  as  in  all  affairs  of  the  emotion,  it  is  the 
unspoken  talk  that  matters. 

Thus  these  two  each  felt  that  their  inner  words  went 
unanswered,  and  Unwin  replied  with  that  vague  feeling 
of  flatness  and  disappointment  which  we  all  know  in  sim- 
ilar circumstances. 

' '  Oh !  I  don 't  mind  so  much  as  all  that,  you  know.  I 
have  always  wanted  to  travel  and  it  will  be  a  chance  to 
see  something  of  the  world." 

"But  the  climate "  said  Pauline. 

"Not  so  bad  as  it  is  painted,"  said  Unwin,  all  his  con- 
stitutional hatred  of  being  pitied  surging  up  within  him. 
He  would  be  pitied  by  no  one  now,  not  even  Pauline.  "I 
think  I  shall  like  it  on  the  whole." 

"Then  you  won't  mind  leaving  Wendlebury?"  said 
Pauline,  but  her  own  aroused  pride  caused  her  to  add 
hastily:  "Of  course  not.  It  is  no  place  for  an  active 
young  man." 

"Well,  I  shall  not  be  a  cumberer  of  the  ground  much 
longer,"  said  Unwin. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course,  only  there  is  very  little 
scope,"  said  Pauline  nervously.  "Only  elderly  ladies 


150  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

and  doctors  and  parsons.  You  '11  be  glad  to  get  away  from 
walking  up  and  down  the  market-place  and  playing  bowls 
at  the  inn." 

So  that  was  what  his  daily  life  had  looked  like  to  her! 
His  irritated  nerves  and  sick  heart  made  him  say  with 
a  smile — 

"Yes,  it  will  be  delightful  to  get  away  into  the  open." 

"Be  sure  you  take  plenty  of  quinine  with  you,"  said 
Pauline,  also  smiling.  She  would  answer  him  in  his  own 
tone  though  she  died  of  it  afterwards.  "Well,  I  shall  be 
seeing  you  again  heaps  of  times  before  you  go,  of  course," 
she  added,  moving  on. 

"I  hope  so,  indeed,"  he  answered,  raising  his  hat. 

And  so  they  parted  gaily  enough  in  the  lightly  falling 
rain.  Some  leaves  in  a  garden  near  blew  back,  and  the 
undersides  showed  white  against  the  wind.  Pauline  was 
to  remember  just  how  they  looked  so  long  as  she  remem- 
bered anything,  though  at  that  moment  she  was  not  con- 
scious of  seeing  them. 

And  Unwin  walked  on,  head  erect  and  hat  cocked  a 
little,  as  if  the  world  went  extra  well  with  him.  She  did 
not  want  him.  Good !  She  should  have  every  facility  for. 
getting  rid  of  him  as  easily  as  possible.  And  nobody  in 
Wendlebury,  or  out  of  it,  should  pity  him  on  any  count. 

As  he  passed  the  Pritchards'  house,  Miss  Amelia  looked 
out,  and  her  tender  heart  rejoiced  to  see  him  so  debonair. 

"See,  Harriet!"  she  cried.  "I  believe  he  does  not  mind 
losing  the  situation  with  Lord  Southwater  after  all." 

Miss  Harriet,  who  had  not  been  well  for  the  past  day 
or  two,  glanced  out  and  said  querulously — 

' '  No  doubt  he  is  already  planning  a  gay  life  out  there. 
A  light  nature " 

"But  poor  Pauline " 

"Pauline's  well  rid  of  him,  and  hell  soon  find  conso- 
lations," snapped  Miss  Harriet. 

"You  mean  .  .  .  native  ladies?"  said  Miss  Amelia, 
flushing  her  delicate  pink.  "Oh,  I  think  not." 


THE  MEETING  151 

"Why  not?" 

Poor  Miss  Amelia  searched  for  a  ground  for  her  helief 
in  Unwin,  but  could  only  grasp  the  rather  feeble  conclu- 
sion: "Well,  he's  so  fair-skinned  himself  .  .  .  looks  so 
very  clean  ...  a  black  wife.  Such  a  painful  contrast." 

' '  Wife !  Get  me  my  medicine, ' '  said  Miss  Harriet.  ' '  And 
I  might  fancy  a  little  scrap  of  chicken  for  my  supper." 

Miss  Amelia  flushed  again,  more  deeply. 

"You  wouldn't  prefer  an  egg?" 

"I  hate  eggs  after  breakfast.  You  ought  to  know  that 
by  this  time,"  said  Miss  Harriet.  "Really,  Amelia,  I 
have  left  the  housekeeping  to  you  since  I  was  not  well, 
but  I  shall  be  obliged  to  take  it  in  hand  again  myself.  I 
don't  know  what  you  do  with  the  money,  for  you  think 
ten  times  before  buying  a  fowl,  and  I  always  found  our 
allowance  ample." 

"But  you  are  such  a  splendid  manager,  Harriet,"  said 
Miss  Amelia  humbly,  flushing  until  the  tears  came  into  her 
eyes,  and  her  hands  trembled.  "Our  father  always  used 
to  say  you  could  manage  Europe  if  you  could  get  at  it. 
I  can  see  him  now  saying  it,  sitting  in  that  very  chair." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  turning  from  the  subject  of 
the  housekeeping  allowance.  "He  appreciated  my  intel- 
lect as  neither  dear  Mother  nor  you  did — but  then  you 
were  never  intellectual,  Amelia.  I  remember  you  as  a 
young  girl,  all  sensibility  and  blue  ribbons.  It  is  a  wonder 
you  did  not  marry,  for  men  like  that  sort  of  thing,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"You  ought  to  have  married  a  Bishop,"  said  Miss 
Amelia.  "I  am  sure  if  any  Bishop  had  known  of  you 
he  would  have  come  and  sought  you  out.  He  would 
have  felt  it  a  duty."  She  paused.  "Harriet,  if,  as  some 
people  think,  we  are  placed  in  a  future  life  where  we  ought 
to  have  been  here,  you  will  be  in  charge  of  a  bishop 
with  a  large  number  of  the  younger  clergy  in  the  imme- 
diate neighbourhood.  Of  course,  there  will  be  no  marry- 


152  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

ing  or  giving  in  marriage.  .  .  .  However,  perhaps  some 
other  arrangement  ..." 

But  Miss  Amelia  was  so  plainly  speaking  at  random  that 
Miss  Harriet  stared. 

"Really,  Amelia,"  she  said,  "I  sometimes  wonder  if 
you  are  not  becoming  imbecile.  What's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"Poor  young  Unwin!  I  felt  so  sorry.  I  have  so  often 
seen  him  pass  and  now  he  is  going  away,"  flustered  Miss 
Amelia. 

"You  can  spare  your  pity  then,"  said  Miss  Harriet. 
"I  have  no  doubt  he  is  going  down  to  see  that  woman." 

And  indeed,  as  often  happened,  Miss  Harriet  was  not 
far  out  in  her  calculations,  for  a  few  hours  later  Unwin 
actually  did  walk  from  the  office  to  the  Bowling  Green 
Inn  past  Delia  Lambert's  lodgings  and  slackened  his  foot- 
steps at  her  door,  uncertain  whether  to  knock  or  not. 
Then — it  is  such  trifles  which  influence  all  the  crises  of 
life — Delia  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  that  decided 
him  to  go  in.  He  felt  a  sudden,  irresistible  desire  to 
confide  in  this  woman  who  understood  men,  and  who 
would  not  seek  to  know  more  than  he  wished  to  tell.  He 
could  talk  to  her  about  himself,  as  no  man  of  Unwin 's 
type  can  do  to  another  man,  and  he  had  that  longing 
known  to  most  healthy,  normal  human  beings  sooner  or 
later,  to  remove  the  barrier  set  up  by  years  of  reticence. 

But  the  mood  was  subconscious  or  he  would  have  re- 
mained outside,  not  trusting  himself  in  that  shabby  arm- 
chair by  the  little  open  window  where  a  jar  of  mignonette 
shaded  him  from  the  passers-by.  He  was  quite  unaware 
of  any  danger  and  only  felt  a  grateful  sense  of  rest  and 
security  as  he  lit  a  cigarette  after  passing  one  to  Delia. 
She  did  not  rush  into  conversation  but  said  a  desultory 
phrase  or  two  about  simple  things.  The  voices  of  chil- 
dren playing,  the  faint,  clear  sound  of  Wendlebury  beck 
running  over  stones  behind  the  row  of  old  cottages,  a  crow 


THE  MEETING  153 

flying  home  above  the  red  roofs — all  the  sounds  of  the 
little  country  town  at  evening  floated  through  the  open 
window  and  mingled  with  the  clean  fragrance  of  the  mi- 
gnonette. 

Unwin  felt  as  a  wounded  man  may  do  who  first  finds 
himself  safe  in  hospital,  and  for  a  little  while  forgets  his 
sufferings  in  the  heavenly  relief  of  not  having  to  keep  it 
up  any  longer. 

"Playing  rounders,"  he  said,  nodding  in  the  direction 
of  the  voices. 

"Yes.     They  seem  jolly,"  said  Delia. 

Then  they  sat  silent  again,  the  blue  smoke  curling  about 
the  green  heads  of  mignonette  as  Delia  held  her  cigar- 
ette between  her  dark,  slender  fingers. 

"You  look  much  better,"  said  Unwin  after  a  time. 

"Yes.  I'm  better  than  I  have  been  for  ages.  The 
simple  life  suits  me,  I  suppose.  And  there 's  something  re- 
poseful in  the  place  .  .  .  you  can't  describe.  ..." 

"No,"  said  Unwin.  But  it  was  plain  enough  that  even 
the  vagrant  Delia  was  undergoing  the  Wendlebury  change 
which  most  people  felt  sooner  or  later.  Sooner,  if  they 
possessed  imagination  and  a  quickly  responsive  nature, 
but  later,  anyway,  should  they  remain  long  enough  among 
the  straight-fronted  houses  beneath  the  little  spire. 

Delia  was  feeling  this  change  or  influence  to  the  full  as 
she  leaned  back  on  the  ugly  sofa,  but  she  was  not  actively 
conscious  of  it,  any  more  than  of  the  scent  of  the  mignon- 
ette or  of  the  mingled  voices  of  Wendlebury  at  evening. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  shall  stay  here  for 
ever !  Just  getting  older  and  older  until  some  fine  autumn 
day  I  drop  from  the  bough ;  like  Miss  Amelia. ' ' 

He  smiled. 

' '  Fancy  your  wanting  to  do  anything  like  Miss  Amelia. ' ' 

Delia  sighed  idly. 

"Well!  it  won't  last,  but  it's  nice  while  it  does.  The 
wandering  spirit  will  get  hold  of  me  again  and  I  shall 
have  to  move  on.  It's  in  my  blood.  Heaps  of  people 


154  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

are  the  same.  The  Wandering  Jew  was  not  a  celibate, 
I'm  sure,  and  I  do  believe  he  spent  a  lot  of  time  in  Eng- 
land." 

Unwin  removed  his  cigarette  and  sat  looking  at  it.  Delia 
said  nothing.  At  last  he  spoke  casually — 

"Well,  I'm  off,  you  know.  I'm  going  to  join  the  wan- 
derers. ' ' 

"West  Africa?  That's  a  long  trail.  Shall  you  like 
it?" 

He  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fireplace. 

"I've  lost  that  job,  you  kno^v." 

"Yes.    Well,  you've  got  another,"  said  Delia. 

"I  don't  know  why  Lord  Southwater  turned  me  down, 
but  I  have  had  a  hint  that  he  thought  me  unsteady  or 
something  of  that  sort." 

"That's  impossible,"  said  Delia  decidedly.  Then  she 
gave  a  little  laugh.  "Chubb  thinks  you  too  fond  of  a 
joke,  but  Lord  Southwater  couldn't  be  such  an  owl  as  to 
deprive  a  good  man  of  a  post  for  that  reason." 

"No,"  said  Unwin.  "He  is  a  just  man.  Well,  I  must 
leave  it.  Perhaps  somebody  else  turned  up  whom  he 
thought  more  suitable.  Or  a  high  church  dignitary  may 
have  pulled  a  string.  You  never  can  tell.  A  man  with 
a  great  deal  of  power  is  nearly  always  capricious." 

Silence  again,  Delia  offering  no  futile  condolences,  and 
at  last  Unwin  said,  coming  back  to  his  chair — 

"I  suppose  you  know  how  I  wanted  that  job?  What 
it  meant  to  me?  Not  for  the  money  exactly.  ..." 

"Yes,"  said  Delia. 

"It  was  the  chance  of  my  lifetime,"  said  Unwin.  "And 
I  never  dreamed  for  one  second  that  there  was  any  doubt 
about  it.  I  regarded  the  appointment  as  good  as  made. 
So  you  would,  if  you  had  heard  Lord  Southwater  talking 
to  me  in  Wendlebury  Church,  knowing  him  for  the  man 
he  is."  He  paused  gloomily,  staring  into  space.  "By 
Jove!  I  wonder  if  that  old  hag  Mrs.  Delamere  has  been 
repeating  any  stupid  Wendlebury  gossip  about  me. ' ' 


THE  MEETING  155 

"But  there's  nothing  for  them  to  gossip  about,"  said 
Delia. 

' '  They  don  't  wait  for  that, ' '  said  Unwin. 

"No,  I  suppose  not."  Delia  sat  looking  down,  pre- 
occupied with  something  beyond  Unwin 's  misfortune. 
Then  she  raised  her  head  suddenly  and  her  long,  care- 
less figure  under  the  loose  draperies  grew  taut.  "We 
laugh  at  gossip,"  she  said.  "We  might  as  well  laugh  at 
death.  It  was  talk  that  drove  me  out  into  the  world  at 
twenty  and  ruined  my  life.  I  was  a  fool  and  threw 
myself  at  a  man's  head  so  openly  that  people  knew.  He 
began  the  game  and  I  would  not  realise  when  he  was 
tired.  I  can  see  myself  now — poor,  little,  desperate  fool — 
trapping  him  on  his  way  home  from  business.  I  didn't 
care  if  the  other  men  laughed.  I  would  have  gone  through 
a  world  of  laughing  devils  to  meet  him."  She  broke  off, 
letting  her  hands  fall  with  that  odd,  crooked  smile  of  hers. 
' '  Lord !  To  think  I  could  love  like  that !  And  all  wasted ! ' ' 

"You  got  something  out  of  it,"  said  Unwin. 

"Did  I?  I  wonder.  Anyway,  the  town  naturally  rang 
with  my  misdoings  and  my  mother  said  I  had  ruined  my 
sisters'  prospects  in  life.  People  would  be  frightened  to' 
come  to  the  house.  So  I  went.  It  seemed  the  only  way." 

"Your  mother  must  have  been  very  callous,"  said  Un- 
win. 

"No,  she  was  always  kind,  but  she  wag  not  very  brave, 
and  gossip  makes  cowards  of  many  brave  women,"  said 
Delia.  "Goodness!  If  only  we  could  see  this  minute 
before  us  the  miseries  brought  about  by  talk,  I  do  believe 
we  should  find  it  worse  than  that  produced  by  drink.  But 
there!"  She  flicked  her  cigarette  ash.  "No  more  of 
that  subject.  I  don't  know  why  I  let  myself  go  so.  I 
think  it's  because  I  have  had  a  lot  of  time  lately  to  re- 
member things.  After  all,  Wendlebury  would  not  be 
Wendlebury  if  people  were  not  so  vitally  interested  in  each 
other." 

"I  like  the  little  town,"  said  Unwin.     "When  I  first 


156  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

joined  my  father,  I  found  it  dull  after  a  big  city,  but 
there's  an  atmosphere  .  .  .  you  could  fancy  a  man  be- 
ginning something  fine  here  that  would  never  pay  and 
doing  it  happily  all  his  life.  I'm  pretty  sure  you  could 
recapture  the  love  of  the  work  for  the  work's  sake  in 
Wendlebury. ' ' 

Delia  looked  at  him  with  deep  attention,  studying  his 
charming  open  face  as  he  spoke. 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  said.    ' '  Well,  why  not  try  it  ? " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Go  to  Lord  Southwater  and  tell  him  about  his  brother. 
He  is  a  proud  man,  but  not  without  feeling,  any  more 
than  any  one  else.  Gratitude  will  make  him  do  something 
for  you,  even  if  you  do  not  get  the  post." 

' '  We  talked  that  over  before.  You  know  I  can 't  do  it, ' ' 
said  Unwin.  "I  wouldn't  break  a  promise  to  a  dead  man 
who  trusted  me  for  fifty  appointments." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Delia,  then  she  sighed  and 
got  up  to  light  the  lamp.  "Poor  Delamere;  he  brought 
unhappiness  to  every  one  who  was  connected  with  him. 
And  yet — "  She  smiled  suddenly.  "I  got  something  out 
of  that  too.  I  was  a  fool  twice,  which  is  unforgiveable. 
But  I'd  rather  that,  than  not  be  able  to  be  a  fool  at  all." 

"H-hem!  Will  you  have  your  blinds  down?"  said 
the  little  dressmaker,  peering  in  with  real  reluctance  but 
urged  by  her  sense  of  propriety  which  amounted  to  a 
passion.  "People  can  see  inside  so  clear  with  the  lamp 
lighted.  Not  that  there  is  anything  in  ladies  smoking 
nowadays.  Quite  the  latest,  of  course.  But  what  is 
only  dashing  in  Ryeford  Terrace  gets  peculiar  in  Bowling 
Green  Row,  if  you  take  my  meaning?" 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Unwin  gravely. 

"It's  not  what  you  do,  it's  what  people  see  you  do 
that  makes  things  a  little  unpleasant  sometimes,"  said 
the  dressmaker  apologetically.  "I  am  making  a  cup  of 
cocoa  for  Miss  Lambert;  may  I  press  you  to  take  one 
too?" 


THE  MEETING  157 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Unwin,  accepting  the  hint.  "I 
am  going  now.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late." 

So  the  dressmaker  retired,  aching  with  curiosity.  Her 
great  liking  for  Unwin  could  not  hide  the  fact  that  he 
was  paying  marked  attentions  to  two  ladies.  She  did 
not  believe  that  Miss  Pauline  Westcott  would  have  at 
all  approved  of  his  sitting  there  smoking  cigarettes  at 
nearly  eleven  o'clock  at  night  with  Miss  Lambert.  Be- 
sides, people  would  talk. 

But  Unwin,  walking  down  the  quiet  streets  where  drawn 
blinds  gleamed  blank  in  the  moonlight,  was  once  more 
impervious  to  the  talk  of  Wendlebury.  For  a  moment  he 
had  glimpsed  the  possible  importance  of  it  in  speaking 
of  Mrs.  Delamere  and  Lord  Southwater,  but  the  realisation 
was  so  foreign  to  his  temperament  that  it  did  not  last,  and 
before  he  had  passed  the  corner  of  Ryeford  Terrace  the 
twittering  tongues  of  the  little  sleeping  town  were  no  more 
to  him  than  the  hushed  twittering  of  the  sparrows  in  the 
eaves  ...  a  part  of  life  here  and  of  the  familiar,  uncon- 
sidered  day. 

His  thoughts  circled  round  the  woman  he  had  just 
left.  The  ravaged,  lined  face,  high  cheek-bones  and  burn- 
ing eyes,  the  long  figure  in  the  loose  clothes  which  yet 
seemed  made  for  her  and  no  one  else,  the  magnetic  charm 
which  made  all  she  said  interesting.  He  was  surprised  that 
she  seemed  to  have  been  so  unlucky  in  her  love  affairs, 
not  realising  that  he  himself  placed  her  on  a  plane  far 
below  Pauline  because  she  was  capable  of  giving  lavishly 
with  both  hands,  having  no  reserves.  He  was  glad  to  take 
her  friendship  and  sympathy,  but  the  Romance  in  him 
followed  an  elusive  image  of  Pauline  flitting  before  him 
down  the  grey  street.  Because  of  the  passionate  tender- 
ness in  her  which  could,  he  believed,  be  found  by  him 
alone,  he  was  ready  to  follow  the  dream  to  his  life 's  end. 

He  pictured  himself  growing  old  alone  and  thinking 
of  her  thus  beneath  the  startling  moonlight  of  a  foreign 
land.  The  clock  struck  twelve.  He  stood  still,  wonder- 


158  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

ing  how  long  it  would  be  before  lie  heard  the  bells  of 
Wendlebury  chiming  out  another  June. 

Then  the  mood  passed  and  he  walked  briskly  on,  his 
footsteps  echoing  in  the  empty  streets,  determined  to 
waste  no  more  feeling  over  a  girl  who  could  be  cold  to 
him  because  he  was  unfortunate.  Pauline  ought  to  have 
shown  herself  kinder  than  ever  before  at  that  first  meet- 
ing after  his  disappointment,  and  she  had  been  embar- 
rassed and  cold.  She  need  not  fear — he  was  not  the  man 
to  pursue  a  girl  against  her  will  on  the  strength  of  a 
half-given  promise.  There  should  not  be  the  very  least 
difficulty,  even  to  her  delicate,  sensitive  perceptions,  in 
getting  rid  of  him. 

All  of  which  was  very  contradictory  indeed;  but  if 
people  could  see  clearly  when  in  love  there  would  be  very 
few  love-stories  either  lived  or  written — only  a  straight 
march  from  the  first  thrill  to  the  reserved  compartment. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AS  LUCK   WOULD  HAVE  IT 

LORD  SOUTHWATER  walked  in  his  garden  at  eve- 
ning feeling  subconsciously  a  brighter  red  in  the  ge- 
raniums and  a  smoother  green  in  the  lawns  because  of  the 
departure  of  Mrs.  Delamere  after  her  annual  visit.  And, 
being  kindly  disposed  to  the  Universe,  he  thought  with 
pleasure  of  restoring  that  little  church  where  Pauline 
and  Unwin  had  suffered  involuntary  imprisonment.  Then 
his  thoughts  strayed  naturally  to  the  architect,  and  he 
regretted  very  much  being  unable  to  employ  Unwin  .  .  . 
a  pleasant  young  man  .  .  .  one  who  had  his  work  at 
heart.  .  .  .  Lord  Southwater  again  felt  the  spark  dor- 
mant in  himself  flash  out  in  response  to  that  bright  ar- 
dour of  the  enthusiast  which  he  had  so  plainly  seen  in 
Unwin. 

He  paced  slowly;  there  was  a  scent  of  gathered  hay 
in  the  air;  the  world  was  good,  and  Mrs.  Delamere — 
for  all  practical  purposes — not  in  it.  He  began  to  wonder 
if  the  reports  concerning  Unwin  were  altogether  true. 
Lord  Southwater  was  a  man  of  the  world,  albeit  a  narrow 
world,  and  he  did  not  place  too  much  credence  in  re- 
ports emanating  from  a  little  town  about  a  high-spirited 
young  fellow.  The  Vicar  obviously  liked  and  trusted  Un- 
win, though  he  had  not  been  able  to  deny  that  the  young 
man  was  considered  a  little  wanting  in  ballast. 

Still,  the  peaceful  evening,  the  sight  of  his  own  hand- 
some possessions,  the  dinner  he  had  recently  eaten,  all 
inclined  the  excellent  peer  to  kindness,  added  to  which  he 
had  ezperienced  a  difficulty  in  finding  another  man  to  his 

159 


160  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

mind.  He  began — as  the  most  high-principled  widower 
may  at  such  an  hour — to  think  with  a  certain  avuncular 
pleasure  of  Pauline's  face  and  voice  and  of  what  she  had 
said  to  him.  Her  charm — which  by  no  means  appealed 
strongly  to  men  as  a  rule — had  almost  taken  his  fancy 
captive.  He  felt  he  should  like  her  to  be  happy.  Finally, 
he  told  himself  that  the  strict  justice  in  which  he  felt  such 
pride  made  a  personal  investigation  of  the  matter  neces- 
sary. He  would  go  quietly  and  unannounced  to  Wendle- 
bury  during  the  ensuing  week  and  see  what  he  could  find 
out  on  his  own  account.  Perhaps  he  might  after  all  be 
able  to  appoint  Unwin  and  the  whole  affair  would  thus  be 
completely  and  satisfactorily  settled. 

Pauline,  meanwhile,  was  in  bed  with  a  bilious  attack, 
the  unfortunate  and  unromantic  result  in  her  case  of 
excess  of  emotion.  No  girl  can  feel  a  heroine  even  to 
herself  under  such  conditions,  and  when  she  came  forth 
at  last,  limp  and  sallow,  her  one  idea  was  to  see  Unwin 
at  once  and  tell  him  what  had  been  on  her  mind  cease- 
lessly during  all  those  restless  hours.  She  felt  that,  come 
what  might,  she  could  not  bear  the  suspense  any  longer. 
For  she  felt  sure  by  this  time  that  Unwin  had  traced  the 
story  of  the  Green  Dragon  doorway  to  her,  and  that  he 
remained  away  because  he  naturally  could  not  forgive 
her.  She  must  try  to  explain  that  it  was  not  quite  as 
bad  as  it  seemed.  No,  she  would  not  do  that.  She  would 
just  throw  herself  on  his  generosity  and  ask  him  to  for- 
give her. 

Her  knees  shook  a  little  as  she  walked  along  the  street, 
and  Aunt  Dickson  from  the  window  signalled  that  she 
would  do  better  to  stroll  towards  the  country.  But  she 
kept  on  in  the  direction  of  Unwin 's  office  and  soon  en- 
countered Mary  Carter,  tennis  racket  in  hand — 

"Coming  to  the  club  this  afternoon?" 

"No,  to-morrow.    I  have  been  seedy,"  said  Pauline. 

Mary  laughed. 


AS  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT  161 

"Well,  I  like  Saturdays  best  myself.  It  is  nice  to  have 
a  man  or  two  there.  By  the  way — talking  of  men — we 
have  Miss  Walker  sewing  for  us  to-day!" 

Pauline  smiled  abstractedly,  anxious  to  get  on. 

"That  sounds  like  a  riddle.    Well,  see  you  to-morrow." 

' '  Of  course,  if  you  don 't  want  to  hear  what  Miss  Walker 
said  ..." 

"I  do!  I  do!  But  I'm  rather  in  a  hurry.  What  is 
it?"  said  Pauline. 

"Only  that  we  need  none  of  us  bother  ourselves  about 
Unwin's  misfortunes,"  said  Mary.  "There  I  was,  feel- 
ing so  sorry  for  him,  and  getting  mother  to  ask  him  to 
dinner  on  Sunday,  and  it  appears  that  he  goes  and  smokes 
with  that  fortune-telling  woman  nearly  every  night  until 
all  hours." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Well — nothing  so  awful  in  that,"  said  Pauline,  with 
an  effort. 

"Oh,  no.  Miss  Walker  particularly  insisted  that  she 
acts  chaperone  in  the  kitchen  and  turns  him  out  at 
eleven,"  laughed  Mary.  "Sometimes  with  cocoa.  You 
can't — as  she  says — see  anything  really  wrong  in  an  inter- 
view that  ends  in  cocoa. ' '  She  paused.  ' '  Dear  me !  How 
ill  you  look,  Pauline.  You  really  ought  not  to  be  out  by 
yourself." 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Pauline  hastily.  "I  must  get  on 
now." 

"Then,"  said  kind,  commonsense  Mary,  "I'm  coming 
with  you;  that's  all.  Where  are  you  going?" 

Pauline  looked  down  for  a  moment.  Where  was  she 
going?  Not  to  throw  herself  impulsively  upon  the  gener- 
osity of  a  man  who  could  so  easily  find  consolation  for 
her  absence  in  the  society  of  a  woman  like  Miss  Delia 
Lambert. 

"To — to  the  draper's  shop,"  she  said,  naming  a  place 
where  she  was  certain  not  to  see  Unwin. 


162  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Kiglit-oh!"  said  Mary,  cheerily  putting  off  her  after- 
noon 's  amusement. 

But  as  luck  would  have  it  they  encountered  Unwin, 
and  the  sight  of  him  caused  Pauline  to  flush  so  deeply 
that  she  looked  unusually  well.  In  pursuance  of  his  inten- 
tion to  leave  her  free — especially  if  she  could  look  like 
that  while  he  was  broken-hearted — he  affected  an  over-done 
jauntiness. 

"Jolly  weather,  isn't  it?  I  see  you're  off  to  tennis, 
Miss  Carter.  You  off  too,  Miss  Westcott?" 

"Not  to-day,"  said  Pauline,  her  voice  sounding  very 
cold  because  only  with  a  great  effort  could  she  control  it 
to  speak  at  all. 

"Oh!  I  expect  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  then.  The 
ground's  in  fine  condition.'" 

"You  have  not  played  much  this  year  so  far,"  remarked 
Mary. 

"No.  Must  make  up  for  lost  time.  Not  many  Sat- 
urdays left  now.  Good-bye." 

"Sorry  to  hear  it.     Good-bye,"  said  Mary. 

So  they  parted,  and  he  had  alluded  to  his  departure 
after  all,  which  he  had  not  meant  to  do:  while  Pauline 
could  have  beaten  herself  for  being  unable  to  bring  out 
any  word,  good  or  bad,  with  Mary  listening.  She  could 
not  even  offer  him  the  decent  civility  of  an  acquaintance 
and  say  she  was  sorry  to  hear  of  his  departure,  because 
all  her  strength  was  needed  to  keep  the  door  shut  on  her 
surging,  pressing  emotions.  She  was  weak  and  a  little 
feverish  still,  and  the  effort  left  her  so  flushed  and  bright- 
eyed  that  Mary  said  gaily — 

"It  has  done  you  good  meeting  Unwin,  though  you 
were  so  distant  with  him. ' ' 

' '  Distant  ? ' '  murmured  Pauline  vaguely,  her  heart  thud- 
ding in  heavy  beats  against  her  side. 

' '  Why,  yes, ' '  said  Mary.  ' '  But  it  is  only ' '  She  did 

not  continue  her  sentence,  because  Pauline  was  not  a  per- 
son to  whom  you  could  say  everything,  but  she  felt  it  quite 


AS  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT  163 

proper  that  a  man  who  had  played  fast  and  loose  with  a 
girl  after  the  manner  of  Unwin  with  Pauline  should  be  re- 
ceived coldly. 

"I  suppose  that  Miss  Lambert  is  rather  fascinating  in 
her  way?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

' '  Chubb  says  so, ' '  said  Pauline,  achieving  a  little  laugh. 

"You'd  hardly  expect  Chubb  and  Unwin  to  have  the 
same  taste,"  said  Mary;  then  putting  on  a  woman-of- 
the-world  tone  that  went  comically  with  her  rosy,  round 
face,  she  concluded :  ' '  Men  seem  to  have  a  different  stand- 
ard. You  never  know  what  they'll  fancy,  but  I  believe 
they're  all  alike  in  the  end  about  the  sort  they  do  fancy. 
It's  something  hidden  from  a  woman  that  men  see.  Look 
at  that  ugly,  serpenty,  red-haired  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  .  .  . 
and  yet  they  say  all  the  men  fall  in  love  with  her.  It's  a 
mystery,  like  lots  of  other  things. ' ' 

And  while  the  two  friends  walked  home  again,  con- 
templating with  such  wide  girls'  eyes  the  wonders  of  love 
and  life,  Unwin  sat  in  his  office  contemplating  the  same 
from  a  man's  point  of  view.  But  one  great  difference 
was  that  while  they  wondered,  he  thought  he  knew  all 
about  love.  He  decided  now  that  he  could  do  well  enough 
without  that  sort  of  thing  and  that  it  was  an  extra  in  a 
man's  life — like  keeping  a  motor  car — whatever  it  might 
be  for  a  woman.  Still  he  sat  in  the  meantime,  pencil  in 
hand,  staring  at  the  blank  paper,  seeing  Pauline's  face 
take  form  on  the  dim  whiteness  and  her  deep  eyes  shine 
out  at  him  in  tender  inquiry. 

So  the  ceaseless  round  of  love,  scorn,  indifference,  long- 
ing, love,  went  on  in  Unwin 's  heart  as  it  has  done  and  will 
do  in  every  lover's  through  the  ages,  seeming  little  to 
many  who  have  passed  it  by,  but  always  big  with  fate  to 
those  who  look  back  on  their  lives  with  understanding. 

He  had  now  dispensed  even  with  an  office  boy,  so  his 
seclusion  was  undisturbed.  The  clock  ticked  on  through 
the  July  afternoon — a  brief  shower  slanted  across  the 
panes  and  died  again — a  boy  went  past  calling  strawber- 


164  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

ries,  which  are  late  in  Wendlebury — life  stretched  out 
before  him  like  a  long,  dull  plain.  At  last  a  timid  knock 
sounded  on  the  door  and  he  called  "Come  in!"  but  no 
one  entered,  so  he  called  again,  and  a  high,  female  voice 
answered  nervously — 

"If  you  could  ...  I'm  rather  burdened  ...  so  sorry 
to  trouble  you.  ..."  Thus  he  knew  that  Miss  Amelia 
waited  without. 

As  he  ushered  her  in,  striving  to  relieve  her  of  her 
parcels,  she  murmured  over  and  over  again:  "So  sorry 
...  I  should  never  have  ventured  .  .  .  only  I  felt  in  this 
matter  I  had  only  you  and  my  Creator  to  depend  on  ... 
and  He,  naturally  .  .  .  not  a  thing  you  could  ask  ..." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Unwin  gently,  finally  removing  the 
parcels  and  placing  them  on  the  table.  "It  is  such  a 
warm  day.  Rest  a  little  before  you  begin  to  tell  me." 

"Rest!"  said  Miss  Amelia,  her  pale  eyes  flooding  with 
tears.  "That's  just  what  I  can't  do,  day  or  night."  She 
pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  and  pulled  herself 
together.  "Mr.  Unwin,  let  us  be  business-like.  I — I  par- 
ticularly wish  to  place  this  matter  on  a  business  footing, 

if  possible.  Only "  and  her  lip  began  to  tremble 

again,  "there  can  be  no  business  about  one  side  of  it — 
never!  Nothing  but  kindness  on  your  part  and  eternal 
gratitude  on  mine." 

From  the  way  in  which  this  last  co^nect^d  sentence 
came  out,  following  the  incoherent  rambling  beforehand, 
it  was  evident  that  Miss  Amelia  had  saved  this  spar 
alone  from  the  wreck  of  a  fine  address  composed  in  the 
solitude  of  her  own  bedroom. 

"Anything  I  can  do,  I  shall  be  only  too  glad,"  began 
Unwin,  then,  to  lighten  the  situation  he  added  with  a 
smile,  "so  long  as  it  is  not  another  ghost." 

"N-not  exactly  that,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  "but  still  an 
unpleasantness  connected  with  house-property."  She 
paused  and  began  again  earnestly :  ' '  Mr.  Unwin,  you  may 
have  noticed  that  we  only  contributed  half-a-crown  to 


AS  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT  165 

the  School  Treat  Fund  this  year  instead  of  our  usual 
guinea?" 

"No,  indeed/'  said  Unwin.     "How  should  I?" 

"The  list  was  published  in  the  Parish  Magazine,"  said 
Miss  Amelia;  "I  can't  think  how  you  failed  to  notice  it." 
She  lowered  her  voice.  "Mr.  Unwin,  I  grieve  to  say  that 
I  told  a  lie — the  first  deliberate  lie  of  my  life — in  con- 
nection with  that  magazine.  I  said  to  my  sister  that  it 
had  been  accidentally  destroyed  when  in  reality  I  burned 
it  with  my  own  hands.  And  why  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps  you  thought  it  too  exciting  reading  for  an 
invalid,"  jested  Unwin,  willing  to  relieve  the  emotional 
tension  from  which  the  poor  lady  was  evidently  suffering. 

Miss  Amelia  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  in  all  good  faith,  "not  on  this  occa- 
sion, though  I  have  known  times  when  there  have  been 
letters  from  the  Vicar  about  the  new  heating  apparatus 
in  the  church  and  so  on.  .  .  .  But  there  was  nothing  con- 
troversial in  this  number."  She  bent  forward  until  her 
lightest  whisper  could  be  heard  and  glanced  behind  her 
at  the  door.  "It  is  this.  We  planned  to  contribute  a 
guinea  as  usual,  and  I  gave  half-a-crown  only,  retaining 
the  other  eighteen-and-six  for  household  expenses.  But 
this  source  of  extra  income  is  terribly  limited,  as  you  will 
understand,  and  my  sister  has  to  have  every  luxury  and 
no  worry.  It  is  rather  singular,"  concluded  Miss  Amelia, 
"how  often  doctors  seem  to  prescribe  that,  and  how  very 
difficult  it  is  to  get.  You  would  wonder  sometimes  that 
they  did  not  try  to  substitute  something  else  which,  in  the 
world  as  it  is,  one  would  find  more  readily  obtainable." 

Unwin  saw  that  Miss  Amelia  was  chattering  nervously 
on  to  put  off  saying  what  she  had  come  to  say,  so  he  only 
responded:  "Yes,"  and  added  at  once,  "Well,  what  is 
it,  Miss  Amelia?" 

"My  dear  father  used  to  say,"  she  began,  flushing  deli- 
cately all  over  her  pink-and-white  face,  "that  a  person 
who  discussed  his  money  matters  outside  the  family  circle 


166  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

was  entirely  without  refinement.  But — "  and  the  last 
words  rushed  forth,  desperate  and  unpremeditated:  "If 
I  don't  discuss  them  the  butcher  and  grocer  will.  The 
house  we  own  is  unlet.  The  tenant  ran  away  just  before 
the  rent  was  due,  and  I  am  not  such  a  good  manager  as 
Harriet.  I  was  depending  on  the  money.  But  now  I 
dare  not  tell  her  for  fear  of  a  relapse.  We  are  not  so 
rich  as  we  are  supposed  to  be,  Mr.  Unwin.  Indeed,  to 
some  people,  I  daresay  we  might  seem  poor,  though  we 
have  always  found  our  income  sufficient,"  she  concluded 
with  a  gentle,  tremulous  dignity  which  Unwin  found 
touching. 

"We  must  try  to  find  another  tenant,"  he  said. 

"But  that  is  just  the  difficulty,"  said  Miss  Amelia. 
"We  took  the  last  tenants  without  a  very  good  reference 
because  the  house  had  got  a  bad  name.  We  hoped  they 
would  live  it  down.  The  fact  is  the  last  three  tenants  have 
all  died  there.  Well  over  seventy,  it  is  true,  but  not  so 
very  long  after  taking  the  house.  And  you  know  what 
Wendlebury  is.  It  takes  so  little  to  make  a  talk." 

Unwin  laughed  indulgently;  Wendlebury  talk  seemed 
to  him  such  a  funny,  negligible  affair. 

"Oh,  it  will  soon  blow  over,  Miss  Amelia.  I  will  do 
my  best  to  find  you  a  tenant  if  that  is  what  you  want,"  he 
responded. 

She  got  up  and  put  her  hand  on  her  parcels,  trembling 
very  much. 

"T-that  would  take  time.  Weeks,  perhaps.  I  want 
money  now." 

In  a  moment  Unwin 's  cheque-book  was  out  of  the  drawer 
— though  his  assets  at  the  bank  were  not  so  large  as  his 
careless:  "Why,  Miss  Amelia,  that's  nothing!"  implied. 

But  he  was  surprised  on  looking  up,  suspended  pen  in 
air,  to  see  the  rigid  little  figure  by  the  writing-table. 

"No,  Mr.  Unwin,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  "I  did  not  come 
to  borrow  money  of  you.  I  could  do  that  elsewhere.  Mrs. 
Dickson  .  .  .  any  number  of  old  friends.  ...  I  came  to 


AS  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT  167 

ask  of  you  a  far  more  delicate  and  difficult  service.  But 
I  will  not  trouble  ..." 

"Miss  Amelia,"  said  Unwin,  smiling  at  her  in  friendly 
impatient  perplexity,  ' '  how  the  dickena  am  I  to  know  what 
it  is  if  you  won't  tell  me?" 

Miss  Amelia  hesitated,  saw  some  reason  in  that  remark 
and  flung  forth  with  desperation :  "I  want  you  to  pawn 
my  jewelry  and  my  christening  mug,"  then  waited  for 
the  heavens  to  fall. 

"But  surely  the  jeweller  would  allow  you  something 
on  them?"  said  Unwin. 

"And  have  the  news  flying  all  over  the  place  that  the 
Miss  Pritchards  had  disposed  of  their  jewelry.  No,  I 
would  die  first,"  cried  Miss  Amelia. 

"But  he  would  respect  your  confidence.  Or  I  might 
take  the  things  and  not  say  who  they  belonged  to,"  said 
Unwin. 

"When  every  single  one  was  bought  from  him  or  his 
father  or  his  grandfather!"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "And  the 
man  would  tell  his  wife  or  somebody.  I  should  not  blame 
him.  He  really  would  not  be  able  to  help  it,"  she  added, 
seeing,  indeed,  that  such  a  stupendous  piece  of  news  must 
burst  any  ordinary  bonds  of  discretion. 

"But  the  pawnshop  man  may  recognise  the  things,  too," 
said  Unwin. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "I — I  obtained  news  of  him 
— I  must  confess  by  a  sort  of  subterfuge — from  Mrs. 
Chubb.  And  he  is  from  London.  He  would  not  know 
my  hair  brooch  from  Miss  Argle's,  for  instance.  Jewelry, 
no  doubt,  is  just  plain  jewelry  to  him." 

' '  Like  Peter  Dunn, ' '  said  Unwin,  still  trying  to  ease  the 
situation. 

"Was  Mr.  Dunn  a  pawnbroker?"  said  poor  Miss 
Amelia,  speaking  the  low  cognomen  with  reluctance.  "I 
suppose  a  famous  one.  I  never  heard  of  him."  She 
stopped  short  and  one  tear  trickled  down  the  side  of  her 
nose.  "You  are  naturally  reluctant  to  accept  euch  an 


168  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

errand.  I  ought  not  to  have  asked  it.  I  had  thought 
of  disguising  myself  and  going  after  dark,  but  my  cour- 
age failed  me.  I  can  quite  well  do  that  still." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Unwin.  "If  you  are  bent  on  it, 
I  will  take  the  things,  of  course." 

Miss  Amelia  glanced  at  the  cheque-book. 

"But  you  must  promise  to  really — er — pawn  them," 
she  insisted.  "You  must  not  just  pretend  to  do  so  and 
lend  me  the  money.  That  would  hurt  me  very  much  in- 
deed. I  should  be  sorry  I  had  trusted  you.  You  must 
please  promise?" 

' '  All  right,  I  promise, ' '  said  Unwin. 

Miss  Amelia  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief  and  burst 
openly  into  tears. 

"You're  so  kind  .  .  .  you  ought  to  be  happy  .  .  .  only 
the  best  never  are.  And  I'm  sure  the  hottest  climate  even 
with  tigers  ought  not  to  daunt  Pauline " 

"Where  shall  I  bring  the  money?"  said  Unwin 
abruptly. 

"If  you  could — about  ten-thirty  a.m.  outside  the  fish- 
monger's?" said  Miss  Amelia,  wiping  her  eyes.  "There 
is  always  rather  a  crowd  there  on  Market  Day  and  our 
transaction  would  not  cause  any  remark.  People  in  pass- 
ing would  think  it  a  subscription,  no  doubt."  She  went 
to  the  door,  escorted  by  Unwin,  murmuring  incoherently: 
"I  do  hope  you'll  forgive  .  .  .  the  masterly  way  in  which 
you  dealt  with  our  ghost  suggested  to  my  mind  ...  I 
shall  ..."  Then  she  paused,  not  being  glib  at  speaking 
of  such  matters,  "I  shall  pray  for  you  out  in  Africa,  I 
shall  indeed." 

Unwin  was  shaking  hands  with  her  at  this  moment 
and  he  felt  suddenly  impelled  to  lift  the  slender  withered 
fingers  to  his  lips,  saying  in  a  low  tone — 

"I  hope  you  will,  Miss  Amelia." 

So  they  parted,  and  she  went  away  through  the  clean 
grey  streets  with  a  little  glow  at  her  heart,  in  spite  of 
Harriet's  illness  and  financial  anxiety. 


AS  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT  169 

Lord  South-water  stepped  forth  from  his  mansion,  feel- 
ing he  was  a  good  man,  as  indeed  he  was,  and  a  just  man 
— as  indeed  he  intended  to  be.  He  entered  the  waiting 
ear  which  shone  as  if  to  match  the  owner 's  shining  virtues, 
and  was  conveyed,  continually  patted  on  the  back  by  his 
own  conscience,  to  the  outskirts  of  Wendlebury.  Here  he 
alighted,  commanding  that  he  should  be  fetched  from  an 
appointed  place  at  an  appointed  time,  and  walked  on 
his  own  distinguished  legs  towards  Dr.  Carter's  house.  He 
knew  that  a  doctor  in  a  little  town  knows  everything  even 
though  he  never  talks  about  it,  and  he  thought  Dr.  Carter 
might  be  ready  to  give  him  some  further  information 
about  Unwin;  but  he  also  vaguely  hoped  to  hear  some- 
thing more  as  he  went  about  the  town,  and  with  that  ob- 
ject visited  the  fishmonger  who  occasionally  sent  fish  out 
to  Southwater  Park,  and  the  chemist  who  now  and  then 
made  up  prescriptions.  Still,  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  ask  either  of  these  men  what  they  thought  of  Unwin, 
and — for  him — it  was  equally  impossible  to  lead  up  to  the 
subject  in  an  indirect  way.  So  he  ordered  a  piece  of 
salmon  he  did  not  require  with  very  great  dignity,  and 
a  box  of  voice  lozenges,  and  learnt  nothing  about  any- 
thing but  the  weather. 

The  day  was  very  hot,  and  his  lordship  was  beginning 
to  be  unpleasantly  conscious  of  his  boots  when  Chubb 's 
cab  came  slowly  down  the  street.  Griselda  drooped  as 
she  went  with  an  air  of  ostentatious  martyrdom,  signify- 
ing that  she  intended  to  die  in  harness  and  go  to  heaven 
and  make  Chubb  feel  uncomfortable  for  ever  afterwards. 
And  Chubb  was  intimidated  by  this  attitude,  as  a  man 
decent  at  heart  ever  must  be,  and  he  got  down  and  gave 
her  a  carrot,  and  besought  her,  though  without  words,  to 
put  off  going  to  heaven  for  the  present. 
,  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Lord  Southwater  came  up, 
conscious  of  his  boots,  and  decided  to  drive  to  Dr.  Car- 
ter's. He  also  recognised  Chubb  and  the  patient  creature 
who  had  conveyed  Pauline  to  his  house,  and — though  this 


170  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

he  did  not  even  hint  to  himself,  for  one  could  not  question 
a  cabman  on  such  a  subject — he  had  a  last  wavering  hope 
of  hearing  something  by  accident. 

"You  seem  fond  of  your  horse,"  he  said,  standing 
pompous  on  the  kerb.  "It  is  getting  old,  but  I  daresay 
there  is  plenty  of  work  in  it  yet — plenty  of  work  in  it 
yet." 

"Isn't  old  .  .  .  not  to  say  old,"  grunted  Chubb, 
mounting  the  box.  "Where  to,  sir?" 

"Dr.  Carter's."  The  peer  cleared  his  throat.  "Ahem! 
I  expect  you  have  plenty  of  work.  So  many  ladies  in 
Wendlebury. " 

"Fair  to  middlin',"  said  Chubb.  There  would  only 
be  twopence  extra  at  the  end  of  it  all  and  he  was  not 
going  to  give  more  than  value  for  money,  lord  or  no 
lord.  Griselda  flapped  her  tail  gently.  It  was  as  if  her 
soul  answered  to  Chubb 's  soul :  ' '  Hear !  Hear ! ' ' 

"But  very  few  young  men,"  pursued  Lord  Southwater, 
getting  into  the  cab.  ' '  Remarkably  few !  Mr.  Unwin,  for 
instance,  is  almost  the  only  one  I  know." 

"Indeed,  sir!  Gee-up,"  said  Chubb,  outwardly  all 
stolid  acquiescence,  but  with  his  inner  being  rioting  and 
whooping  along  a  hot  trail.  So  that  was  why  his  lord- 
ship wandered  a-foot  on  the  hard  pavements  of  Wendle- 
bury!  He  had  come  to  inquire  about  Unwin. 

The  cab  was  now  passing  through  a  very  short  street 
which  leads  to  the  market  place.  A  shop  stands  at  one 
corner,  and  a  public-house  at  the  other.  Lord  Southwater, 
averting  his  eyes  from  the  Pig  and  Whistle,  was  gazing 
full  at  the  pawnship  when  Unwin  emerged  with  a  ticket 
in  his  hand.  Above  his  head  were  the  three  blatant  golden 
balls.  He  came  out  openly,  lost  to  that  decent  reticence 
which  should,  at  all  events,  cloak  the  questionable  pro- 
ceedings of  a  gentleman. 

Chubb  glanced  back  over  a  humped  shoulder  at  Lord 
Southwater,  unable  to  restrain  his  curiosity.  Then  some 
dim,  inner  feeling  of  man  to  man  comradeship  caused 


AS  LUCK  WOULD  HAVE  IT  171 

him  to  jerk  out,  as  the  cab  swerved  round  into  the  market 
place — 

"You  can  off  ens  get  bargains  in  them  pop-shops.  I 
dessay  he  was  buying  himself  a  second-hand  revolver  to 
tek  abroad  with  him  to  Africa.  You  have  to  have  one 
handy  fer  lions  and  tigers  there." 

' '  Oh,  probably, ' '  said  Lord  South  water,  leaning  back  in 
the  cab.  Then  he  added  in  a  minute  or  two:  "After  all, 
Chubb,  I  think  I  will  see  Dr.  Carter  on  some  other  occa- 
sion. Kindly  drive  me  to  the  railway  station  where  my 
car  is  waiting." 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  was  rushing  along  in  the  car 
between  the  green  lawns  and  bright  flower-beds,  feeling 
glad  that  he  had  pursued  his  own  investigations  inde- 
pendently of  his  sister-in-law,  and  reluctantly  obliged  to 
own  that  he  had  been  right — as  usual — in  hia  verdict 
upon  Unwin.  By  the  end  of  dinner  this  new  proof  of  his 
own  infallibility  had  almost  obliterated  hia  regret. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MORE   NEWS 

MES.  DELAMERE  went  about  in  these  days  flashing 
her  teeth  at  Windlebury  like  a  tiger  in  a  cage.  And, 
indeed,  she  did  in  a  sense  endure  that  position,  because 
Lord  Southwater  had  placed  a  restraint  upon  her  which 
she  dared  not  break  through.  After  Pauline's  departure 
from  Southwater  Park  an  interview  took  place  upon  which 
Mrs.  Delamere  still  looked  back  with  a  sinking  feeling,  as* 
if  she  were  coming  down  very  suddenly  indeed  in  a  power- 
ful lift.  For  it  had  been  icily  terrible.  No  explanations 
on  her  part  of  the  sisterly  feeling  which  had  made  her 
watch  over  Lord  Southwater 's  reputation  when  dealing 
with  a  minx — even  to  the  extent  of  placing  herself  in  a 
hideously  painful  and  compromising  position — had  been 
of  any  use  whatever.  All  the  impressive  majesty  gained 
on  countless  platforms  and  rubbed  from  the  pontifical 
robes  of  bishops  and  archbishops  had  been  turned  upon 
her,  and  she  petered — as  it  were — out  of  the  study,  with 
the  knowledge  that  she  must  either  keep  her  mouth  shut 
or  forfeit  the  support  of  the  Southwater  family  for  ever. 
She  dared  not  even  hint  at  what  she  was  bursting  to  say, 
for  fear  some  rumour  of  it  snould  come  to  her  brother-in- 
law  's  ears,  and  she  let  off  some  superfluous  steam — without 
which  relief  she  must  have  burst,  leaving  the  fragments, 
like  Jezebel,  in  Wendlebury  market  place — by  collecting 
ardently  for  the  Nursing  Fund,  and  thus  being  able  to 
call  on  everybody,  and  hear  all  the  news,  without  jeop- 
ardising her  position  as  a  lady  who  did  not  visit  in  Wen- 
dlebury. 

172 


MORE  NEWS  173 

She  even  bowed  to  Unwin,  though  she  had  by  this  time 
become  convinced  that  he  must  be  a  thoroughly  unwor- 
thy young  man — or  why  did  her  brother-in-law  not  em- 
ploy him  after  an  almost  definite  promise?  And  she 
"moved,"  as  Wendlebury  has  it,  to  Pauline,  though  with 
a  significant  stiffness  of  the  muscles  at  the  back  of  her 
neck. 

But  Pauline  was  too  engrossed  in  her  own  feelings  to 
notice  the  fine  gradations  of  a  bow  from  Mrs.  Delamere, 
and  she  went  for  interminable  walks  to  avoid  Aunt  Dick- 
son's  kind,  anxious  glances,  not  realising  how  her  own 
self-engrossment  was  affecting  the  lonely  old  woman. 

She  did  not  even  notice  that,  as  if  by  some  precon- 
certed signal,  the  tortoise  was  touched  directly  she  came 
in  and  tea  appeared  whatever  the  hour,  Aunt  Dickson 
merely  saying :  "I  somehow  didn 't  want  my  tea  before ' ' ; 
or  Eva  remarking,  with  her  careless  fling:  "Here's  your 
tea,  Miss  Pauline;  Missus  fancied  hers  soon  after  lunch." 

It  was  not  until  long  after  that  Pauline  saw  how  dear 
and  lovely  it  had  all  been.  The  little  meal  always  waiting 
for  her ;  the  knowledge  that  she  was  always  wanted.  Then 
the  interested  response  to  anything  she  forced  herself 
to  tell  about  the  walk — the  ready  laughter — the  sense  of 
always  being  able  to  bring  hope  and  fun  and  joy  into  this 
house  where  she  had  received  so  much. 

But  at  the  time  she  only  saw  the  effort  it  cost  her,  and 
felt  her  mind  buzzing  like  a  bee  against  a  closed  window 
at  those  eleven  o'clock  festivals,  during  which  the  ladies 
sat  round  and  ate  and  drank  to  oblige  Aunt  Dickson. 

But  though  she  was  selfish,  after  the  manner  of  all 
young  people  in  love,  she  was  not  selfish  in  her  love  for 
Unwin.  The  Wendlebury  change  in  her  had  transformed 
her  from  a  will-o'-the-wisp  to  something  so  tenderly  hu- 
man, and  near  all  the  motherhood  in  the  world,  that  if 
she  could  have  given  back  to  Unwin  what  her  tongue  had 
cost  him,  and  been  herself  put  out  of  his  life,  she  would 
have  done  it  unhesitatingly.  She  might  have  regretted 


174  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

afterwards,  because  she  was  human  and  there  is  always 
a  reaction  from  self-sacrifice,  but  she  would  have  done  it. 

On  a  day  in  July  she  came  home  about  half-past  five 
from  one  of  these  long  walks  looking  fagged  and  dark 
about  the  eyes.  Miss  Argle  was  there,  with  her  black 
satin  bag  bulging  and  the  cake  plate  empty,  so  Pauline 
knew  that  Aunt  Dickson  had  read  or  become  engrossed 
in  a  difficult  stitch. 

' '  Oh ! ' '  sa.id  this  mild-looking  descendant  of  the  free- 
booters of  Argle  Towers,  dashing  nervously  at  the  subject 
she  most  wished  to  avoid;  "we  were  just  speaking  of  Mr. 
Unwin,  Pauline.  So  pleasant  to  see  that  he  doesn't  mind 
.  .  .  my  nephew,  so  different  .  .  .  refused  excellent  pros- 
pects in  India  on  account  of  the  excess  of  animal  life.  But 
as  I  always  tell  him,  England  seems  to  be  the  only  coun- 
try where  the  lower  animalculce  keep  their  place  .  .  . 
and  we  can't  all  stop  in  England,  can  we?  No  room." 

She  paused  to  draw  breath,  not  for  lack  of  matter,  then 
noting  with  concern  Pauline's  pale  face  and  dark-ringed 
eyes  she  went  on  again,  giving  no  time  for  a  reply:  "He 
has  the  true  adventurous  spirit,  no  doubt.  One  cannot 
judge  such  men  by  ordinary  standards.  Here  to-day. 
Gone  to-morrow.  I  can  understand  the  spirit  .  .  .  the 
Argles,  of  course  .  .  .  though  my  nephew  confines  his  af- 
fections to  prize  rabbits.  It  is  never  wise  for  a  girl  to 
take  such  men  seriously." 

Pauline  flushed  crimson;  so  that  was  the  opinion  of 
"Wendlebury!  She  hated  her  own  fragile  appearance, 
which  she  could  not  control,  and  upon  which  any  inner 
emotion  drew  tell-tale  outward  signs. 

"Does  any  one  take  Mr.  Unwin  seriously?"  she  said  in 
a  light  tone. 

"No.  Oh,  noJ  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Miss  Argle. 
"Eeally,  that  Miss  Lambert  was  in  ray  mind.  I  hear  he  is 
paying  attentions  ...  a  lady,  though  poor,  but,  of  course, 
a  curious  occupation  .  .  .  only  I  hear  she  has  given  it  up 
since  the  summons.  Mr.  Unwin  went  with  her  to  the1 


MORE  NEWS  175 

police-court  Not  that  that  proves  anything,  of  course, 
does  it?" 

"Summons!"  gasped  Aunt  Dickson.  "When  did  this 
take  place?  How  is  it  I  have  never  heard?" 

"Oh,  they  kept  it  out  of  the  newspaper  somehow  .  .  . 
the  Vicar,  I  believe  ...  it  all  happened  the  day  before 
yesterday. ' ' 

' '  And  I  saw  Miss  Amelia  this  morning !  And  she  never 
told  me ! "  said  Aunt  Dickson,  deeply  hurt  by  her  friend 's 
want  of  generosity. 

"I  expect  she  didn't  know.  She  is  so  tied  with  Miss 
Harriet,  you  see,"  said  Pauline,  forcing  herself  to  speak 
carelessly. 

Aunt  Dickson,  for  all  her  jolly  kindness  to  the  world, 
chafed  like  a  dog  held  back  from  a  succulent  bone. 

"Do  go  on  and  tell  us  all  about  it  now,  then,"  she  urged. 

Miss  Argle  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  and  took  up 
her  familiar  black-satin  bag. 

"Done  no  fancy-work  after  all,"  she  murmured. 
"Really  must  be  going  now.  My  dear  Mrs.  Dickson,  there 
is  no  more  to  tell.  Only  Mr.  Unwin  .  .  .  Oh,  what  was  it 
he  did  ?  You  know  .  .  .  something  connected  with  a  boat  ? 
Bail!  That's  it." 

"He  was  always  good-hearted,"  said  Aunt  Dickson, 
trying  not  to  look  at  Pauline. 

"Oh,  yes;  any  lady  he  was  friendly  with,  he  would,  I 
am  sure  .  .  .  even  a  comparative  stranger  like  myself. 
...  I  shall  never  forget  his  obliging  behaviour  about  the 
dress-suit  when  my  nephew  ...  I  wish  I  could  do  him  a 
service." 

It  was  Aunt  Dickson  who  replied,  while  Pauline  thought 
in  silence  what  she  and  this  little  lady  between  them  had 
helped  to  do  with  a  man's  life. 

As  she  conducted  Miss  Argle,  murmuring  and  guarding 
her  well-filled  bag,  to  the  door,  she  .felt  bitter  against 
Wendlebury ;  but  beneath  her  bitterness  she  saw  once  more 
well  enough  that  if  she  blamed  Wendlebury  she  must 


176  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

blame  the  world.  Out  there,  in  the  crowd  and  the  thick 
of  it  all,  exactly  the  same  thing  had  happened  over  and 
over  again  as  had  happened  in  this  little  town.  She  re- 
membered a  great  General  who  had  died  of  a  broken  heart 
because  of  gossip  amid  the  stir  and  clash  of  war:  Wen- 
dlebury  was  only  a  tiny  bit  of  the  world  under  a  magni- 
fying glass;  it  was  the  same  everywhere. 

"Kettle's  boiling,  Miss,"  called  Eva  over  the  stairs, 
putting  her  walking  gown  over  her  scraggy  shoulders. 
"I've  put  teapot  ready." 

She  was  down  in  a  few  minutes,  hat  perky  and  fine 
over  her  long,  thin  face,  a  pair  of  pointed  shoes  on  her 
large  feet,  bows  and  laces  on  her  little  flat  figure,  not  to 
be  "downed"  by  her  looks  any  more  than  by  the  rest  of 
life. 

"I've  laid  supper  on  the  big  tray,"  she  said,  bustling 
about,  "and  here's  a  saucer-cheesecake.  You  always  like 
a  cheesecake,  you  know.  There!  I  must  be  off.  I've 
promised  to  meet  a  young  man  at  half-past  six.  I  came 
across  him  at  Eyeford  Feast  last  week.  Not  that  he  is 
exactly  young  in  the  sense  of  being  young,  but  he  hasn't 
got  a  wife." 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  Pauline  listlessly,  not  be- 
cause she  had  the  faintest  desire  to  hear,  but  because  there 
was  about  her — as  those  who  have  followed  her  fortunes 
so  far  may  have  noticed — a  fundamental  sweetness  of 
courtesy. 

"You're  drinking  your  tea  without  eating,"  interjected 
Eva.  ' '  You  '11  ruin  your  stummick ! ' '  Then  she  answered 
Pauline's  question.  "I  knew  he  was  not  a  married  man 
because  I  asked  him.  Once  bit+en,  twice  shy.  Last  but 
two  I  walked  out  with  turned  out  to  be  a  married  man 
with  seven.  Some  folks  would  ha'  given  it  up  after  that 
.  .  .  but  not  me.  I  just  make  sure.  So  I  says  to  this  man, 
'Are  you  married?'  I  says.  And  he  says,  sharp-like, 
'What  are  you  asking  me  that  for?'  And  I  says:  'I  mean 


MORE  NEWS  177 

to  start  as  I  mean  to  go  on:  all  open  and  above  board.' 
So  he  told  me  he  was  single.     But  you  never  know." 

"You  are  comfortable  enough  here.  Why  bother?" 
said  Pauline. 

"Oh,  you  must  have  a  bit  o'  sport  somehow,"  said  Eva, 
taking  up  a  gay  sunshade  which  was  purely  decorative 
at  that  hour.  "As  my  poor  mother  used  to  say,  'If  you 
can't  have  treacle-pot  don't  be  too  proud  to  lick  the 
spoon.'  So  long,  Miss  Pauline!" 

But  Miss  Pauline  found  herself  as  yet  unable  to  accept 
the  grand  philosophy  of  "Us  Martins,"  and  her  whole 
aching  soul  demanded  the  treacle-pot. 

After  a  while  she  went  back  to  Aunt  Dickson,  but  the 
subject  of  Unwin  and  the  fortune-teller  was  not  men- 
tioned, though  the  air  of  the  room  hummed  almost  audi- 
bly with  the  unspoken  consciousness  of  it.  Aunt  Dickson 's 
true  kindness  of  heart  imposed  on  her  this  restraint  for 
fear  of  hurting  Pauline — she  had  been  acutely  aware  of 
that  deep  flush  of  pain  during  Miss  Argle's  story — and 
she  exerted  herself  to  talk  comfortably  of  little  things 
because  silence  seemed  to  hint  indiscreetly  at  the  for- 
bidden topic. 

But  this  state  of  affairs  could  not  endure  throughout 
a  whole  July  evening,  and  Pauline's  troublesome  nerves 
at  last  impelled  her  to  end  it  with  a  casual — 

"Just  like  Mr.  Unwin  to  go  to  the  rescue  of  the  dis- 
tressed." 

"Yes.     What  is  this  Miss  Lambert  like?" 

Pauline  hesitated. 

"Oh,  not  young.  Some  people  might  think  her  good- 
looking."  A  pause,  and  an  effort.  "There  is  something 
about  her.  I  could  see  that." 

"Um.     Well,  Unwin  will  soon  have  left  here,  and  I 
dare  say  it  may  be  years  before  we  hear  any  more  about 
him.    A  nice  fellow,  but  not  to  be  relied  on." 
<     So  having,   as  it  were,  shuffled  the  cards  and  mixed 


178  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  knave  in  with  the  rest  of  the  pack,  she  tacitly  in- 
vited Pauline  to  start  afresh. 

But  a  subject,  in  Wendlebury,  is  not  thus  easily  dis- 
missed, and  when  Eva  entered  the  room,  still  attired  in 
the  gay  gown,  her  first  words  opened  it  out  afresh.  She 
made  a  feint  of  removing  the  bread-and-milk  bowl,  then 
put  it  down  again  on  the  table  and  gave  herself  up 
openly  to  the  thrilling  situation. 

"I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Chubb,  'm.  She's  been  charing 
at  Miss  Walker's  to-day — where  that  fortune-teller's  stop- 
ping. They've  had  her  up  for  doing  it.  Miss  Walker, 
the  dressmaker,  was  in  an  awful  way — awful.  They  say 
Mr.  Unwin  had  to  go  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  to  her 
before  she'd  let  that  Miss  Lambert  stop.  She  said  it 
would  ruin  her  connection.  But  she  gave  in  in  the  end." 

There  followed  a  silence,  which  Eva  took  for  the  si- 
lence of  stupefied  astonishment.  She  regarded  it  as  her 
due  and  continued  with  increased  animation — 

"Mr.  Unwin  seems  regularly  taken  in  with  that  Miss 
Lambert.  And  she's  no  beauty,  not  to  my  way  o'  think- 
ing, and  won't  ever  see  thirty  again.  You'd  wonder  what 
got  him,  all  the  nice  young  ladies  there  is  in  the  world," 
she  concluded  with  an  indignant  glance  in  Pauline's  di- 
rection. 

.     "Young  men  will   be  young  men,"  murmured  Aunt 
Dickson  vaguely,  forced  into  some  kind  of  reply. 

"So  they  say,"  retorted  Eva.  "But  when  a  girl  gets 
into  trouble  they  never  say  young  women  will  be  young 
women ! ' ' 

"Mr.  Unwin  has  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  this  mat- 
ter," said  Pauline  quickly.  "You  may  be  quite  sure  of 
that,  Eva." 

"Well,  Miss,"  said  Eva,  "whether  he  has,  or  whether 
he  hasn't,  he's  made  a  deal  of  talk.  That's  his  worst 
failing,  I  dessay;  he  never  seems  to  turn  round  and  think 
whether  he's  making  talk  or  whether  he  isn't.  If  us 
Martins  had  done  like  that  we  should  never  be  where  we 


MORE  NEWS  179 

are  to-day.  As  my  poor  mother  used  to  say,  'You  want 
to  be  a  dirty  tramp  like  old  Jenkins  that  can't  be  made 
out  worse  than  he  is,  or  a  rich  man  like  Squire  that'll  go 
on  bein'  rich  whether  you  talk  or  not,  afore  you  can  do 
things  without  thinking  what  folks  '11  say  about  you.'  ' 
She  paused.  "Not  that  I  blame  him  about  Miss  Lambert, 
poor  feller.  There's  Chubb,  too.  Whatever  do  you 
think?  He  said  if  she  was  turned  out  of  her  lodgings 
they'd  take  her  in,  and  Mrs.  Chubb  said  nothing  for 
fear  of  hardening  him  on  ...  but  to  herself  she  says, 
'On'y  over  my  dead  body.'  For  it  was  one  thing  him 
been  so  taken  up  with  his  old  mare,  but  when  he  began 
with  Miss  Lambert  .  .  .  And  all  he  says  is  that  she's  the 
perfectest  lady  he  ever  met  with  in  all  his  cab-driving, 
and  he  can't  say  no  other.  But,  of  course,  that  isn't  it." 

"Eva,  I  really  can't "  began  Aunt  Dickson. 

Eva  pursed  up  her  mouth  and  stared  at  Aunt  Dickson 
and  Pauline  with  round  eyes  of  mystery. 

"I  don't  mean  what  you  mean.  I  don't  think  she  goes 
on  with  Chubb — nobody  in  their  senses  could.  But  she 
doesn't  only  a  fortune-tell;  she  nypnotises.  I  read  a 
tale  about  one  in  the  Wendlebury  Herald.  You  can't  do 
naught  agen  'em,  once  you  let  'em  get  near-hand  you. 
And  it  stan's  to  reason  that  Mr.  Unwin  must  ha'  got 
nypnotised,"  she  concluded  indignantly,  "or  else  he 
wouldn't  give  a  nice  young  lady  like  Miss  Pauline  the  go- 
by for " 

"Mrs.  Chubb  talks  a  lot  of  nonsense,"  interposed  Aunt 
Dickson.  "I  wonder  you  have  not  too  much  sense  to 
listen  to  her,  Eva." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  Mrs.  Chubb,"  flashed  out  Eva, 
defending  her  sex  against  the  adventuress,  as  women  ever 
will.  "She  says  she's  all  of  a  work  inside  from  morning 
to  night  and  her  food  mud  as  well  go  down  sink  for  all 
the  good  it  does  her!  I  wish  Miss  Lambert  had  never 
come  near-hand  Wendlebury!" 

Pauline  secretly  echoed  the  sentiment,  but  Aunt  Dick- 


180  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

son  was  not  so  sure;  she  felt  inclined  to  think  that  the 
fortune-teller  had  done  good  service  to  Pauline  in  show- 
ing plainly  that  Unwin  was  not  a  man  to  be  depended 
on  or  regretted. 

Unwin  himself  had  no  idea,  of  course,  that  his  private 
affairs  were  heing  thus  openly  discussed,  and  the  affair 
of  Miss  Lambert  had  by  no  means  been  so  important 
as  Miss  Argle  and  Eva  imagined.  True,  a  policeman  had 
called  at  Delia's  lodgings,  scaring  the  little  dressmaker 
into  hysterics,  but  there  had  been  no  question  of  bail, 
and  a  fine  and  a  promise  had  satisfied  the  authorities. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  Unwin 's  mind  was  filled  with  other 
matters,  and  he  was  very  busy  putting  his  affairs  in 
order  before  going  abroad.  Never  having  troubled  him- 
self about  the  tongues  of  Wendlebury,  he  was  scarcely 
likely  to  begin  now.  So  he  ceased  to  search  for  reasons 
why  the  appointment  had  been  withheld,  taking  the  view 
that  such  speculating  was  weak  and  futile,  and  getting 
ready  to  do  his  best  in  the  job  which  had  turned  up. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  he  was  happy  at  any  time 
during  this  period,  and  when  he  gave  himself  time  to 
think  he  was  acutely  miserable  with  the  baulked  agony 
of  a  man  in  the  first  flush  of  youth  and  strength  who 
has  come  to  regard  a  girl  as  his  future  wife.  The  loss 
of  her,  and  of  the  lovely  beckoning  prospect  which  Lord 
Southwater  had  held  out  to  him,  did  not  embitter  him, 
because  the  seeds  of  bitterness  lie  within  and  his  nature 
did  not  contain  them.  But  he  knew  there  was  only  one 
such  post  in  the  world,  and  that  he  had  nearly  got  it, 
and  had  lost  it.  That  gave  a  sense  of  frustration  in  his 
case,  somewhat  to  be  compared  with  the  irritating  nervous 
effect  of  frustrated  love,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
this  state  of  mind  directly  led  to  his  love-troubles.  If  he 
had  been  as  usual  he  would  have  been  happily  engaged 
to  Pauline  by  this  time,  and  not  employed  in  making 
imaginary  obstacles  out  of  his  own  foolish  pride. 

But  there  seem  no  limits  to  the  blindness  of  love,  as 


MORE  NEWS  181 

Mrs.  Chubb  was  demonstrating  in  her  own  kitchen,  open- 
ing and  shutting  her  mouth  like  a  frenzied  fish,  and  yet 
not  desperate  enough  to  "let  Chubb  have  it,"  and  clear 
the  matter  up  once  and  for  all,  lest  he  should  remove  his 
affections  from  her.  He  was,  as  she  deeply  felt  in  that 
bursting  heart  behind  the  decent  alpaca,  so  dreadfully 
attractive  to  the  weaker  sex.  It  would  appear  incredible 
— if  a  jealous,  good  woman's  imagination  were  not  capable 
of  things  a  sensational  Sunday  paper  would  boggle  at — 
to  recount  what  Mrs.  Chubb  thought  when  Mr.  Chubb  took 
Delia  out  for  a  drive  in  his  cab.  And  now  he  was  saying, 
just  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course — 

"Miss  Lambert  wants  to  see  our  procession  on  Feast 
Day.  I've  telled  her  to  stand  at  Market  Corner.  She'll 
get  a  fine  view  there." 

A  fine  view  of  what?  Mrs.  Chubb 's  interior  arrange- 
ments, of  which  Eva  had  made  mention,  became  so  dis- 
turbed that  they  seemed  to  be  waltzing  together,  but  she 
only  remarked — after  opening  and  shutting  her  mouth 
twice:  "How  many  white  Bisons  is  going  to  ride  this 
year?" 

"Me  and  four  others.  The  rest '11  go  on  foot,"  replied 
Chubb,  with  the  careless  dignity  befitting  a  man  whose 
position  in  the  Ancient  and  Worshipful  Order  of  White 
Bisons  is  too  firmly  established  to  need  comment.  "Mind 
you  iron  my  gown  well  this  time." 

Seething,  Mrs.  Chubb  took  from  a  drawer  in  the  dresser 
the  white  nightgown-like  garment  in  which  Chubb  on 
these  occasions  bestrode  Griselda. 

"You  wouldn't,"  she  said,  in  a  deceptively  mild  voice, 
"like  Miss  Lambert  to  see  you  with  a  crease  in  it,  of 
course." 

"No,  I  shouldn't,"  said  Chubb.  Then  he  lighted  his 
pipe.  "Some  o'  the  chaps  looks  rare  an'  silly  dressed  up 
like  that!" 

"Ay,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  but  she  refrained  from  say- 
ing how  glorious  Chubb 's  appearance  always  was  on  these 


182  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

annual  festivals,  and  though  he  did  not  actually  notice 
this,  he  missed  something — in  a  vague  sort  of  way — to 
which  he  was  accustomed. 

1 '  Get  me  my  other  pipe, ' '  he  said  testily.    ' '  This  doesn  't 
seem  to  draw  right  somehow." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  WHITE  BISONS 

IT  is  a  well-known  fact  that  if  a  person  contracts  some 
unusual  illness  or  suffers  some  peculiar  accident  of 
which  he  has  never  heard  before,  there  seems  immediately 
to  spring  out  of  the  very  ground  any  number  of  similar 
cases.  Mrs.  Jones,  whom  the  sufferer  has  long  known, 
possesses  a  hidden  cousin  who  suffers  from  precisely  the 
same  affliction,  while  a  man  at  the  butcher's  shop  has  en- 
dured it  for  years  past  himself.  And  the  same  rule  ap- 
plies to  affairs  of  the  emotion  and  intellect,  so  it  is  no 
wonder  that  Pauline  began  to  find,  all  about  her,  those 
whose  lives  had  been  injured  by  gossip. 

For  instance,  on  this  very  morning  of  blue  sky  and 
slanting  showers  with  a  promise  of  sunshine — a  perfect 
Weiidlebury  day — she  saw  from  the  window  a  dirty  little 
clergyman  who  went  past  with  shuffling  feet  and  bent 
shoulders.  His  shiftless  incongruity  with  the  bright, 
bustling  alertness  of  Wendlebury  on  the  great  occasion 
of  the  White  Bisons  annual  celebration,  led  Pauline  to 
remark  carelessly — 

"There's  Mr.  Robinson  again!  I  don't  think  he  ought 
to  wear  clerical  clothes  at  all  if  he  goes  about  in  that 
state.  Why  is  he  not  working?" 

"Oh,  he  got  into  some  trouble  with  his  parishioners. 
There  was  a  lot  of  talk  and  he  had  to  retire,"  said  Aunt 
Dickson,  already  seated  in  the  window  in  her  best  black 
satin  awaiting  chance  callers  from  the  country. 

"But  did  he  do  anything  wrong?"  said  Pauline.  "I 
mean,  was  anything  actually  proved?" 

183 


184  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"No;  but  there  is  no  smoke  without  fire,"  said  Aunt 
Dickson.  ' '  However, ' '  she  added,  willing  to  give,  as  usual, 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  "I  dare  say  it  was  only  because 
he  kept  white  mice  and  didn't  eat  meat.  People  would 
naturally  talk — and  when  people  once  begin  to  talk  ..." 

Pauline  made  no  reply,  but  remained  at  the  window 
looking  after  the  shuffling  figure.  She  saw  now,  not  just 
a  dirty  little  retired  parson,  but  a  man  with  the  main- 
spring of  life  broken  by  the  tongues  of  his  fellow-men, 
and  her  heart  was  filled  with  an  angry  pity. 

"Can't  we  ask  him  in?"  she  said. 

"I  have  done,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  "but  he  won't  come. 
He  likes  to  be  left  alone  with  his  pipe.  I  remember  him 
quite  a  good-looking  young  man  with  a  high  colour  when 
Wendlebury  was  his  first  curacy." 

A  sudden  vision  of  the  old  clergyman  as  he  once  was 
rose  before  Pauline's  mind  .  .  .  the  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions .  .  .  the  little  red  town  about  the  tall  spire  of  the 
church  where  he  first  ministered  .  .  .  the  glamour  of  life 
just  opening  out  .  .  .  and  it  had  ended  in  this. 

' '  Oh,  if  people  were  only  born  dumb ! ' '  she  said. 

"No,  no,"  said  Aunt  Dickson  comfortably.  "Speech  is 
like  everything  else  that  is  any  use — you  can  do  good  or 
harm  with  it.  Look  at  cotton-wool  ...  so  soft  and  com- 
forting .  .  .  and  yet  you  can  use  it  to  blow  up  and  kill 
people." 

"But  you  do  at  least  know  when  you're  using  it  to 
blow  up  with!'1  retorted  Pauline;  and  Aunt  Dickson,  un- 
able to  pursue  the  argument,  said  with  perfect  equanim- 
ity- 

"  Things  are  like  that.  You  have  to  take  things  as 
they  are." 

But  it  is  age  alone — or  supine  youth — which  can  accept 
that  view,  and  Pauline  still  wanted  to  make  things  dif- 
ferent. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  the  time  for  introspection 
was  over  and  the  first  of  a  long  line  of  visitors  appeared 


THE  WHITE  BISONS  185 

on  the  pavement  outside.  She  was  that  old  servant  of 
Aunt  Dickson's  to  whom  Pauline  had  carried  gifts  on  her 
way  to  Lord  South  water 's,  and  later,  during  the  whole 
morning,  followed  other  old  servants,  with  children  and 
mothers  and  sisters  of  old  servants,  down  to  remote  col- 
lateral branches.  Most  of  them  brought  country  offer- 
ings, and  the  little  straight-fronted  house  began  to  smell 
most  sweetly  of  old-fashioned  roses  and  southernwood  and 
honey,  and  the  delicious  aroma  from  Eva's  kitchen  caused 
by  constant  relays  of  fresh  tea  and  cakes  mingled  with 
it  all,  until  the  air  about  Aunt  Dickson  was  fragrant  of 
nothing  else  in  the  world  but  kindness.  She  sat  in  her 
chair  by  the  window,  ringing  the  tortoise  bell,  and  order- 
ing fresh  delicacies  from  the  confectioner's  through  the 
telephone,  her  little  dark  eyes  shining  in  her  big  red  face, 
so  at  the  very  buzzing  heart  and  centre  of  Wendlebury 
Feast  that  Pauline  had  to  reflect  some  of  the  jollity  back 
again,  and  be  warmed  by  it,  like  a  person  standing  in  the 
sunshine. 

Then,  after  a  cold  luncheon,  came  a  detachment  of  "us 
Martins"  who — truth  to  tell — rather  looked  down  on  "our 
Eva"  because  she  was  in  service,  they  having  risen  in  the 
world  to  be  lady  clerks  and  post-office  assistants  and  such- 
like, while  "our  Ben"  was  an  engineer  at  Leeds.  But 
Eva  ushered  them  in  with  such  joy,  and  was  so  innocently 
proud  of  their  ugly,  board-school  English  from  which  all 
her  own  vim  and  character  had  been  banished,  and  said 
so  casually:  "There  I  go — our  Emm  laughs  at  my  broad 
talk,"  just  to  draw  attention  to  the  precise  correctness 
with  which  our  Emm  spoke,  that  it  would  have  been  a 
poor  heart  that  did  not  rejoice  with  her. 

Pauline  unconsciously  began  to  take  heart  and  think 
that  something  pleasant  might  after  all  happen  in  a  world 
so  full  of  fun  and  kindness.  She  went  out  for  half  an 
hour  after  lunch  to  see  the  procession  of  the  White  Bisons 
with  that  fountain  of  hope  welling  up  in  her  for  no  real 
reason  at  all  which  is  the  compensation  of  temperaments 


186  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

given  equally  to  unreasoning  despair;  and  she  laughed 
to  see  Chubb  majestic  on  Griselda,  though  only  the  night 
before  she  had  believed  she  would  never  laugh  any  more. 

It  could  not  be  imagined  that  Griselda  felt  comfortable, 
because  she  was  obviously  not  up  to  Chubb 's  weight,  but 
she  staggered  along  with  the  meek  bombast  of  a  very  fat, 
charitable  lady  in  a  very  overheated  room  who  is  hearing 
a  laudatory  speech  about  herself. 

Griselda  shared  with  such  an  one  the  profound  con- 
viction that  she  had  got  on  in  the  world  because  she  was 
good:  the  droop  of  her  neck,  the  very  hang  of  her  tail 
proved  that  beyond  dispute. 

But  on  reaching  the  corner  Chubb  relaxed  somewhat 
of  his  immovable  dignity  and  nodded  to  a  friend  in  the 
crowd.  Pauline  could  not  see  who  it  was  and  was  turn- 
ing away,  when  she  felt  a  clutch  on  her  arm,  a  whisper 
stirring  the  hair  over  her  right  ear. 

"Did  you  see  that!" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Chubb!  I  didn't  recognise  you,"  said 
Pauline. 

"No  wonder.  Everything's  upside  down.  Oh!  what 
a  Feast  Day!  Oh!  the  hussy,  her !" 

"But  what  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Chubb?"  said  Pauline, 
beginning  to  be  concerned.  "Do  tell  me!" 

Mrs.  Chubb  swallowed  several  times,  opened  and  shut 
her  mouth  and  to  some  degree  recovered  herself. 

"I  dessay  it's  the  'eat,  Miss,"  she  said;  "I  think  I'll 
be  going  home." 

"But  Chubb  will  be  coming  back  this  way  in  a  few 
minutes — if  the  mare  doesn't  sit  down  first,"  said  Pauline. 

"I  hope  she  will,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb  unexpectedly. 

"What!"  said  Pauline,  scarcely  believing  her  ears. 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  nodding.  And  she 
added  darkly:  "If  the  mare  sits  down  with  him  and  I 
stand  up  to  him,  perhaps  he'll  begin  to  see."  Then  she 
vanished  among  the  crowd  and  her  mystified  hearer  went 
home. 


THE  WHITE  BISONS  187 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  Miss  Walker  came  to  sit  with 
Aunt  Dickson,  while  Pauline  accompanied  Mary  Carter 
to  the  entertainment  at  the  Assembly  Rooms  which  al- 
ways closed  Wendlehury  Feast.  It  had  been  instituted 
many  years  earlier  by  a  committee  of  county  ladies  with 
the  praiseworthy  object  of  keeping  the  feasters  away  from 
less  innocent  amusements,  but  those  feasters  still  roystered 
in  public-houses  and  squealed  in  roundabouts,  and  be- 
came green  in  swing-boats,  while  the  decorous  part  of  the 
community  who  would  in  any  case  be  decorous  enjoyed 
an  excellent  performance  for  sixpence  a  head. 

On  this  occasion  a  female  Bracegirdle  of  the  highest 
county  reputation  was  to  show  Wendlebury  how  much 
leg  it  was  possible  to  show  while  still  remaining  immacu- 
lately virtuous,  in  a  dance  composed  by  herself  called 
"Love  in  the  Forest." 

Delia  Lambert  also  felt  the  stir  of  life  and  gaiety  in  the 
atmosphere  and  became  restless  in  her  little  house  in  a 
back  street.  So  she  threw  on  a  cloak  and  slipped  along 
to  the  concert  hall  thinking  she  would  never  be  noticed 
— which  shows  how  little  even  yet  she  understood  Wendle- 
bury. But  at  any  rate  she  remained  unseen  for  a  time 
because  the  room  was  quite  dark  and  the  immaculate 
Bracegirdle  was  already  pawing  the  air  and  shaking  a 
hind  leg  to  intimate  joy  in  the  sunrise — see  programmes 
one  penny  each.  This  was  all  very  well  at  first.  A  sort 
of  amazement  at  being  permitted  to  see  so  much  of  a 
Bracegirdle  kept  the  audience  enthralled  and  quiet.  But 
when,  without  moving  far  from  the  same  spot,  the  dancer 
went  through  fifteen  scenes  of  a  very  similar  nature,  only 
shaking  more  leg  and  more  arm,  or  frowning  instead  of 
showing  her  teeth,  the  few  genuine  feasters  at  the  back 
began  to  recover  from  their  amazement  and  to  grow  res- 
tive. And  when,  pursuing  the  limelight  which  declined 
to  pursue  her,  the  lady  dropped  on  the  floor,  where  she 
appeared  to  be  contorted  with  agony,  an  inebriated  voice 


188  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

at  the  back  called  out:  "She's  had  sour  braimberries  i' 
wood!  Hee!  Hee!  There's  nought  gives  you  it  worse 
than  sour  braimberries!" 

"Hush!"  hissed  the  front  benches. 

"It's  dancing.  The  lady's  dancing,  ye  fool!"  urged  a 
neighbour. 

"Dancing!"  said  the  man,  without  any  animosity,  but 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all.  "Ca'  that  dancing!  I 
call  it  sillying  about  in  'er  shift!" 

Then  somebody  threw  a  bouquet,  and  the  curtain  went 
down  and  the  lights  went  up,  while  the  Rural  Dean,  sit- 
ting in  front  of  Pauline,  continued  to  applaud  robustly 
and  openly,  as  though  to  show  every  one  that  he,  at  any 
rate,  saw  those  solid  Bracegirdle  limbs  fully  draped  with 
the  mantle  of  an  hereditary  chastity.  He  looked  round 
at  the  audience  as  he  clapped  his  well-kept  hands,  turn- 
ing his  blue  eyes  and  high-coloured  face  here  and  there 
and  brandishing,  as  it  were,  in  his  own  person,  the  pre- 
cept that  to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure.  Mrs.  Rural 
Dean  leaned  back  and  did  her  duty  languidly  by  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Carter,  giving  Mary  Carter  the  opportunity  to  mur- 
mur in  Pauline's  ear — 

' '  Well,  of  all  things !  I  don 't  know  how  she  ever  could. 
I  do  hope  she'll  catch  cold  in  her  legs.  Why  does  she 
do  it?  But  I  suppose  she  wanted  people  to  see  that  the 
rest  of  her  was  not  quite  so  plain  as  her  face." 

"Oh,  some  people  like  it.  Men  do  ...  anything  with 
legs,"  said  Pauline  vaguely,  catching  sight  of  Delia  Lam- 
bert a  few  yards  away. 

"But  why  should  they?"  urged  Mary,  pursuing  her 
problem. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.    There  are  lots  of  things  ..." 

"  Oh ! "  interrupted  Mary,  also  discerning  Delia.  ' '  That 
woman!  She's  just  as  bad  in  another  way.  How  dare 
she  come  here  amongst  us  as  bold  as  brass  after  being 
taken  up  by  a  policeman  and  all  the  talk!"  She  broke  off 
abruptly.  "Here's  Unwin!" 


THE  WHITE  BISONS  189 

Pauline  turned  and  saw  him  come  through  the  side-door 
with  his  gay,  alert  air,  which  was  really  a  physical  attri- 
bute, his  quick,  wide-open  eyes  glancing  here  and  there  in 
search  of  some  one.  At  last  they  fell  on  Pauline ;  but  with 
a  sudden,  overwhelming  impulse  of  shyness  she  turned 
away.  The  next  second  she  turned  round  ready  to  bow, 
but  it  was  too  late,  and  he  was  already  making  his  way 
to  Delia  between  the  rather  sparsely  filled  benches  at  the 
side  of  the  room. 

The  whole  thing — Pauline's  instinctive  retreat,  Unwin's 
momentary  pause  between  the  two  girls,  his  choice  of 
Delia — was  over  like  a  flash;  and  yet  it  belonged  to  the 
essential  part  of  earthly  love  which  must  be  always  the 
same.  Pauline  had  been  as  natural  as  a  girl  flying  before 
her  lover  in  the  dawn  of  the  world,  and  she  had  looked 
away  because  she  was  seized  in  the  recesses  of  her  being 
with  a  sudden,  passionate  worship  for  Unwin's  virile 
young  body.  This  feeling  was  so  new  to  her — physical 
love  fused  with  her  girl's  love-of-the-spirit  which  had 
been  long  waiting — that  she  now  sat  trembling  with  the 
surprise  of  it. 

Then  she  heard  through  the  rushing  sound  in  her  ears 
— the  unforgetable  sound  of  the  sea  of  love  rushing  on 
to  the  shores  of  life — the  indignant  voice  of  Mary  Carter. 

"Well!  I  didn't  think  it  of  Unwin!  He  has  gone  and 
sat  down  by  that  woman." 

"I  daresay  he  is  sorry  for  her.  He  is  so  good-natured," 
said  Pauline,  trying  to  speak  in  her  ordinary  tone. 

Mary  gave  a  contemptuous  snort. 

' '  Good-natured !  He  went  to  sit  next  her  because  he 
wanted  to.  I  know  enough  about  men  for  that.  Perhaps 
she  is  interesting.  She  ought  to  be.  She  has  had  plenty 
of  time  to  learn  things,"  said  Mary,  hot  with  indignation 
on  Pauline's  account.  "But  I  don't  see  how  any  one 
can  admire  her  appearance.  High  cheek-bones,  flat  nose, 
dozens  of  little  lines  round  her  eyes,  a  long,  loose  lanky 
figure.  I  call  her  downright  ugly." 


190  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Mrs.  Chubb,  enjoying  her  sixpenny  worth  at  the  back 
of  the  hall,  thought  the  same  thing,  and  she  remarked 
to  Eva,  who  sat  near :  ' '  Now  you  see !  If  that  isn  't  nyp- 
notising,  what  is?  Unwin  come  in  and  looked  round, 
hesitating-like,  and  then  went  for  her  as  straight  as  a  die. 
Just  the  same  as  folks  did  when  that  conjuring  fellow 
was  here.  If  Unwin  wasn't  nypnotised,  what  was  he? 
Eh?" 

"That  must  be  it,"  assented  Eva  regretfully,  eyeing 
with  sympathy  Pauline's  back  hair.  "Ay;  love's  a  rum 
thing,  Mrs.  Chubb." 

"You're  right  there,"  sighed  Mrs.  Chubb.  Then  she 
added,  violently  for  her:  "Nobody  could  see  aught  in 
that  great,  gawky  lass  if  they  wasn't  nypnotised.  That 
shows !  You  can 't  blame  the  men ! ' ' 

"I  do,"  said  Eva,  ever  prone  to  support  her  own  sex. 
"Men  shouldn't  go  near  enough  to  get  hypnotised.  They 
should  keep  out  o'  the  way  of  such-like  women.  There's 
plenty  of  others  knocking  about.  I  knew  a  housemaid 
where  I  lived  once — a  great  gawk  with  ginger  hair — and 
yet  all  the  fellers  was  after  her.  She  got  my  young  man 
or  else  I  might  have  been  in  a  home  of  my  own  now. 
And  yet  she  didn't  want  to  keep  him." 

"What's  happened  to  your  last?"  asked  Mrs.  Chubb, 
feigning  interest  but  with  a  vindictive  eye  on  Delia  all 
the  time.  "He  seemed  a  decent  sort  of  chap  but  for  his 
bow  legs." 

' '  Oh,  I  parted  from  him  in  June,  a  bit  before  the  longest 
day,"  responded  Eva  cheerfully.  "It  was  in  the  course 
of  nature,  as  you  may  say,  for  he  started  walking  out 
with  me  in  January  when  it  was  dark  and  he  couldn't 
see  me  very  fair — you  know  what  Wendlebury  street- 
lamps  is — and  as  it  got  lighter,  he  got  cooler.  So  at  last, 
when  he'd  kept  me  waiting  at  street  corner  twice  and 
never  turned  up  I  thought  it  was  time  to  know  where  I 
was.  I  hate  beating  about  the  bush.  So  I  says:  'Are 
we  walking  out  or  are  we  not?'  Plain  out.  Just  like 


THE  WHITE  BISONS  191 

that.  And  he  says:  'Since  you  put  it  to  me,  Miss  Mar- 
tin'— he  talked  very  fine,  you  know;  a  real,  good-educated 
feller,  I  will  own — 'since  you  put  it  to  me,  Miss  Martin,' 
he  says,  'we  are  not!'  '  Eva  paused  to  take  breath  and 
give  half  an  ear  to  a  glee.  "That  was  a  bit  of  a  blow, 
wasn't  it?" 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  asked  Mrs.  Chubb  mechani- 
cally, her  gaze  still  fixed  on  Delia. 

"I  said  'What  for?'  But  I  knew  all  the  time  without 
telling.  I  wore  a  tasty  hat  of  Miss  Pauline's  and  a  veil 
and  a  fur  tie  when  I  first  got  on  with  him,  and  I  'm  chirpy 
enough,  and  he  thought  me  younger  and  better-looking 
than  what  I  am.  But  them  long,  light  evenings  end  o' 
May  and  June!"  She  sighed.  "However,  what  is  to  be, 
will  be.  I  got  to  know  a  policeman  last  night  out."  She 
paused  again,  then  added  with  a  vicarious  triumph  which 
showed  her  sound  and  sweet  to  the  core :  ' '  Our  Emm 's 
engaged  to  a  clerk.  He  wears  a  white  shirt  and  striped 
socks  every  day.  She  got  more  schooling  than  I  did,  and 
she'll  keep  his  position  up  all  right." 

But  Mrs.  Chubb  was  gazing  at  the  programme:  "The 
next  is  the  last,"  she  remarked.  "Should  we  slip  out 
after  this?  I  hate  being  scrooged  and  Chubb  will  be 
wanting  his  supper." 

"As  you  like,"  said  Eva,  "though  I  don't  mind  a  bit 
of  a  crush  myself;  makes  you  feel  you  are  out,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

Still,  as  Mrs.  Chubb  persisted,  they  slipped  out  through 
the  side  door.  Delia,  who  also  disliked  being  crushed, 
followed  with  Unwin. 

"Good-evening,  Mrs.  Chubb,"  she  said  in  passing. 

"Where's  Chubb?"  said  Unwin  pleasantly.  "You 
ought  to  have  brought  him." 

"Hard-working  man  .  .  .  something  better  to  do  ... 
trapesing  about  to  concerts,"  muttered  Mrs.  Chubb,  with 
a  baleful  eye  on  Delia. 


192  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Oh!  he  would  have  enjoyed  it.  Sorry  he  didn't  come," 
said  Delia  lightly. 

So  she  and  Unwin  went  on  together  through  the  little 
crowd  round  the  door,  and  as  they  paused  a  moment  in 
the  street  beyond  they  could  hear  an  old  roundabout 
wheezing  out  a  tune  which  dated  from  the  Boer  War — 
"Good-bye,  Dolly  Grey" — the  tune  to  which  this  genera- 
tion first  re-sung  the  eternal  ballad  of  fighting  men  going 
forth  to  war  and  the  girls  they  leave  behind  them.  Lights 
from  stalls  and  booths  made  a  blaze  of  light  beyond  the 
market  place,  there  was  a  mingled  sound  of  footsteps, 
voices  and  laughter,  the  little  town  held  carnival  for  all 
the  country-side  in  this  flowery  space  between  haytime  and 
harvest. 

Delia  drew  a  long  breath,  enjoying  the  cool  night.  The 
nervous  restlessness  which  had  driven  her  to  the  concert 
gave  keenness  to  her  senses  now,  and  made  her  respond 
to  the  merriment  in  the  air.  A  lad  and  a  girl  went  rol- 
licking by,  full  of  young  life  and  joy  in  the  passing  hour. 

"Let  us  go  too,"  she  said,  seizing  Unwin 's  arm  impetu- 
ously. "Come  on!  Let's  follow  the  fun!" 

Unwin,  though  so  in  love  with  Pauline,  responded  to 
the  challenge  of  that  hand  on  his  arm  and  that  inspiriting 
voice. 

Follow  the  fun!  It  was  what  Delia  had  always  done, 
with  what  tragedy  in  between. 

As  Unwin  raced  along  the  grey  streets  of  Wendlebury 
with  her  now,  he  pressed  the  eager,  nervous  hand  to  his 
side  and  felt  that  here  was  a  fine  companion.  You  could 
imagine  her  wounded,  beaten,  and  yet  stumbling  up  again 
to  follow  the  fun.  "What  a  glorious  companion  for  a  wan- 
derer! His  thoughts  broke  short  on  that  and  paused  a 
second,  startled.  Where  had  he  got  to?  Then  his  reason 
maintained  doggedly  that  she  would  be  a  good  comrade 
for  a  wanderer  in  life. 

He  looked  into  her  face,  which  was  nearly  on  a  level 
with  his  own,  and  saw  her  looking  at  him  with  a  smile. 


THE  WHITE  BISONS  193 

"Want  to  go  back?" 

He  pressed  her  hand  closer. 

"No  .  .  .  want  to  go  on!'* 

"Sure?" 

"Quite  sure,  Delia." 

She  pulled  her  hand  away,  still  smiling. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  you  know.  No  child-stealing  done 
here!" 

He  flushed  angrily  for  a  moment,  being  still  young 
enough  to  feel  annoyed,  then  he  began  to  laugh. 

"Well!  that's  what  you'd  call  applying  the  break  with 
a  jerk,"  he  said;  then  he  added  in  another  tone,  "You're 
a  good  sort,  Delia. ' ' 

"Oh!"  she  began,  then  changed  her  mind  and  said 
at  random:  "Look  at  that  fat  couple  going  through  the1 
gate.  However  did  they  achieve  that?  I  suppose  they  let 
their  minds  fatten  first  and  then  it  spread  outwards — or 
do  you  think  it  acts  the  other  way  on?" 

"Depends  ..."  said  Unwin  vaguely,  listening  not  to 
her  but  to  the  long-forgotten  phrase  of  an  old  nurse  which 
was  for  some  reason  echoing  and  re-echoing  heavily 
through  the  long  corridors  of  memories.  "If  you  can't 
have  what  you  want,  Master  Maurice,  you  must  make  the 
best  of  what  you've  got.  ..."  He  saw  himself  again — 
the  turbulent  urchin  desiring  always  the  unique — and  yet 
did  not  know  why  the  words  should  come  back  so  vividly 
just  now.  Then  the  crowd  pressed  round  them  and  Delia 
allowed  him  to  take  her  arm  again,  and  they  were  thrown 
up,  like  weeds  at  the  edge  of  surf,  close  by  the  round- 
about. 

The  feast  was  nearly  over  for  the  year  and  the  men 
and  girls  flung  themselves  for  a  last  turn,  laughing  and 
shouting,  upon  the,  old-fashioned  wooden  horses  which 
went  round  rocking  clumsily  to  the  tune  of  Dolly  Grey. 
The  air  was  full  of  love-making  and  laughter,  rosy  faces 
and  bright  eyes  formed  a  very  procession  of  youth  between 
the  naphtha  glare  from  a  sweet-stall  near  and  the  gas- jets 


194  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

of  the  roundabout ;  long  streamers  of  pink  and  white  paper 
flew  out  like  garlands.  Unwin  and  Delia  were  carried 
away  by  this  simple  pageant,  hung  breathlessly  laughing 
on  the  edge  of  it,  called  to  each  other  in  loud,  happy 
voices  like  all  the  rest,  taking  it  for  granted  that  they, 
too,  must  join  in. 

"Me  for  that  brown  horse  with  the  rolling  eye!"  cried 
Unwin. 

"No!  No!  There's  that  grey  one  just  like  Griselda. 
I  must  know  what  Chubb  felt  like  this  morning  when  he 
bestrode  Griselda,"  said  Delia. 

"Now!  Now!"  shouted  Unwin,  making  a  dash  for  a 
pair  of  vacant  steeds. 

"Nearly  missed  them,"  panted  Delia,  seated  victo- 
riously amid  a  crowd  of  untiring  equestrians. 

Then  the  music  brayed,  the  thing  began  to  whirl — 
shouts,  shrieks,  laughter,  paper  streamers  flying  out — 
they  were  no  longer  spectators,  but  a  part  of  all  this 
splendid,  whirling,  shouting  procession  of  youth. 

One  round — two  rounds — three  rounds — with  the  show- 
man yelling  that  this  was  the  last,  and  a  final  stop  which 
left  a  clear  space  for  midnight  to  chime  out  over  Wendle- 
bury  town. 

As  Unwin  and  Delia  walked  away  from  the  round- 
about he  took  ner  arm  now  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
they  jostled  along  with  the  other  home-going  couples, 
calling,  laughing  to  each  other,  Unwin  as  little  self-con- 
scious as  the  farrier's  lad  in  front  of  him.  But  Delia's 
introspective  spirit  soon  returned  to  its  place,  watching. 
Again  she  was  the  one  to  draw  away. 

"Well,  so  long  as  we  can  get  that  out  of  a  jolting  coun- 
try roundabout  we  are  not  really  to  be  pitied,"  she  said, 
"whatever  happens  to  us.  We  get  more  than  our  share." 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  said  Unwin  sharply,  not  heed- 
ing her  remark. 

"Do  what?" 


THE  WHITE  BISONS  195 

"Take  your  arm  away." 

Delia  laughed. 

"Why,  because  we're  not  Siamese  twins.  We  can't 
go  about  always  linked  together." 

There  was  a  silence.  Unwin  felt  as  if  somebody  some- 
where— it  was  certainly  not  the  woman  by  his  side — 
waited  tensely  upon  his  reply. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last;  "I  suppose  not." 

They  walked  on  again,  talking  but  with  a  difference, 
encountering  everywhere  other  couples  and  groups  of  re- 
turning revellers.  As  they  knocked  at  the  door,  Delia 
suddenly  remembered  Miss  Walker. 

"Goodness!  I  forgot  all  about  her.  She  will  have 
been  sitting  up  all  this  time,  poor  old  thing!" 

And  the  little  dressmaker  unlocked  the  door,  saying 
with  severity — 

"S'ange  time  o'  night.  Not  uthed  to  thuch  hours, 
Mith  Lambert." 

For  one  moment  Unwin  thought  that  Miss  Walker, 
too,  had  been  making  a  night  of  it.  Then  he  remembered 
the  false  teeth. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said. 

"You  here!"  said  Miss  Walker.  "S'cuse  me!"  She 
whisked  round  and  turned  after  a  pause  with  her  teeth  in 
place.  "A  lady  living  alone  has  to  be  particular.  I  am 
not  used  to  such  doings." 

"It  was  a  concert.  Surely  music  is  all  right,"  said 
Unwin. 

"Not  music  accompanied  by  wooden  horses  and  stream- 
ers of  white  and  pink  paper,"  said  Miss  Walker.     "No, 
Mr.  Unwin,  you  know  Wendlebury  better  than  Miss  Lam- 
bert does,  and  you'd  no  right  to  lead  her  astray." 
•     "I  won't  do  it  again,"  said  Unwin  humbly. 

Miss  Walker  shook  her  head,  mollified  but  still  disap- 
proving. 

"Well,  it  isn't  for  myself,  you  know.  I  don't  believe 
any  harm  of  either  of  you.  But  the  pity  is  that  you 


196  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

should  want  to  do  such  queer  things.  Nobody  could 
imagine  the  Vicar  or  Mrs.  Delamere  wanting  to  ride 
on  a  roundabout.  And  if  they  don't  ..." 

She  left  it  at  that  and  closed  the  door  upon  Unwin. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    DAY    AFTER 

ALIGHT  drizzle  fell  next  morning  and  stray  pieces  of 
paper  blew  forlornly  about  the  streets.  The  milk-lad 
"cheeked"  the  news-girl,  not  jocosely  as  usual  but  with  a 
sub-acid  irony,  and  the  news-girl  asked  Eva  "if  she  was 
going  to  be  kep'  waiting  all  morning  because  other  folks 
was  sleeping  off  feast."  Eva,  irritated  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  washing-day  and  Mrs.  Chubb  behind  time,  gave 
the  news-girl  what  is  called  "a  dressing-down"  and  re- 
tired to  quarrel  with  the  fire-irons,  so  that  Aunt  Dickson 
and  Pauline  breakfasted  to  a  salvo  recognised  by  the 
whole  household  as  the  prelude  to  a  storm.  It  was  alto* 
gether  a  sort  of  temperamental  house  that  Jack  built,  with 
the  jollity  left  out,  that  morning  in  "Wendlebury. 

The  White  Bisons,  suffering  no  doubt  a  reaction  from 
the  high  splendour  of  yesterday,  felt  in  tune  with  the 
rest  of  the  town:  while  Chubb,  as  senior  and  prominent 
Bison,  was  naturally  a  Bison  with  a  very  sore  head.  Mrs. 
Chubb  applied  the  grease  of  flattery  with  little  effect,  and 
Griselda  munched,  meekly  morose,  in  her  stable.  She  re- 
flected that  she  was  not  meant  to  draw  a  cab  but  to  be 
always  walking  with  dignity  through  "Wendlebury  market 
place,  bearing  Chubb  in  a  white  nightgown. 

Said  Mrs.  Chubb^  within  the  house — 

"Drat  those  apron  strings!  I'm  late  for  Mrs.  Dick- 
son's." 

"What  care  I  for  Mrs.  Dickson?"  retorted  Chubb. 
"Where's  my  pipe.  You  gone  and  moved  my  pipe.  If 

197 


198  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

on'y  a  man  could  have  a  place  to  his-self "  He 

paused  and  added  bitterly:  "But,  no.  If  women  was 
outer  the  way  men  would  be  too  happy.  That's  why  it 
is.  Providence  didn't  want  us  to  be  as  happy  as  all  that 
upo'  this  earth,  or  else  we  shouldn't  be  ready  to  leave  it." 

"I'm  sure  you'd  be  very  uncomfortable  without  me, 
Chubb,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "Who'd  mend  your  socks? 

Who'd "  she  broke  off.  "There's  your  pipe  sticking 

out  of  your  breast-pocket  all  the  time." 

"I  never  put  it  there.  I  never  did  put  it  there  i'  my 
life,"  said  Chubb,  taking  it  out  and  frowning  at  it. 

"Who  did  then?  Sperrits?"  said  Mrs.  Chubb:  then 
she  turned  a  sallow  red  and  giggled  with  nervous  defiance. 
"P'raps  your  pipe's  been  nypnotised  too!" 

Chubb  glared  at  her  over  the  lighted  match. 

"Watcher  mean?" 

Mrs.  Chubb — that  strange  mixture  of  garrulousness  and 
secretiveness — opened  and  shut  her  mouth  twice  and  at 
last  said  feebly,  "Oh,  nothing!" 

The  outer  door  closed  upon  her,  and  she  had  trailed 
some  ten1  steps  down  the  street  when  the  flood-gates  of 
speech  were  so  pressed  upon  by  an  insistent  thought  that 
she  was  obliged  to  return,  put  her  head  through  the  door, 
and  shrill  forth  huskily:  "If  I  was  to  die  you'd  be  mar- 
ried again  in  a  year." 

Chubb  looked  at  her  with  the  annoyance  usually  in- 
spired by  people  who  go  away  and  come  back. 

' '  I  dessay  I  should, ' '  he  replied  shortly.  ' '  You  wouldn  't 
want  me  to  cook  me  own  dinner,  would  you?" 

"But  you'd  be  sorry?  You'd  put  me  a  good  headstone 
up?"  pursued  Mrs.  Chubb.  And  something  in  her  anx- 
ious gaze — some  hint  of  the  desperate,  ridiculous  devo- 
tion in  her  heart — did  penetrate  through  many  things  to 
the  man  at  the  core  of  Chubb. 

"Ay,  lass,"  he  said.  "I'd  tek  the  money  we've  saved 
for  a  porch  and  put  you  up  a  real  good  'un — so  I  would ! ' ' 

"With  'dearly  beloved  first  wife'  on  it?"  said  Mrs. 


THE  DAY  AFTER  199 

Chubb.  "Then  all  comers  'd  know  the  second  was  only  a 
second." 

"Well,"  said  Chubb,  "I  think  I  should  wait  until  I 
got  a  second,  and  then  stick  in  'First'  like  you  do  when 
you  miss  a  word  outer  a  letter.  It'd  look  so  bad  to  put 
it  on  straight  away  ...  as  if  I  was  on  the  lookout  for 
another  a  bit  over  quick." 

' '  But  you  '11  remember  to  put  it  in  when  the  time  comes, ' ' 
urged  Mrs.  Chubb. 

"Yes,"  said  Chubb. 

"Promise  faithful." 

"I'm  a  man  of  my  word,"  said  Chubb.  "What  I  say 
I'll  do,  that  I  do."  Then  he  changed  his  tone,  subcon- 
sciously sore  and  miserable  at  the  mere  thought  of  losing 
her.  "Laying  down  the  law  about  your  own  tombstone 
now,"  he  grunted.  "Upon  my  word  I  don't  know  what 
you  '11  be  up  to  next.  Let  me  get  away  to  the  stable. ' ' 

He  hurtled  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  street,  a 
Bison  with  so  sore  a  head  now  that  he  nearly  charged 
into  poor  Miss  Amelia,  who  was  coming  round  the  corner 
with  a  jelly  for  a  sick  woman  which  had  been  originally 
sent  to  Miss  Harriet,  and  which  that  exacting  invalid  had 
termed  glue  and  dishwater. 

' '  Fine  morning  though  dull, ' '  tinkled  Miss  Amelia  pleas- 
antly in  passing;  and  Chubb,  bursting  with  strange  oaths, 
felt  that  this  was  indeed  a  world  in  which  men  such  as 
he  had  to  respond  with  some  degree  of  civility:  "Dull 
morning,  Miss!" 

If  Miss  Amelia  had  been  in  her  usual  frame  of  mind 
she  might,  being  sensitive  to  such  things,  have  noticed 
the  irritability  in  the  air  that  morning.  But  she  was, 
in  a  way,  like  Una  among  the  lions,  being  engrossed  with 
an  inner  joy  which  kept  her  immune  from  outside  distur- 
bances. For  a  letter  had  come  by  the  early  post  saying 
that  the  large  house  belonging  to  the  sisters  had  found  a 
tenant  of  unimpeachable  antecedents  and  character  who 
would  probably  remain  in  it  for  some  years,  and  Miss 


200  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Amelia  was  indeed  praising  God  with  the  best  member 
she  had — which  was  certainly  not  her  tongue — as  she  hur- 
ried through  the  grey  streets.  Her  heart  gave  forth  a 
hymn  of  thanksgiving  as  simple  and  as  real  as  that  of 
birds  in  the  hedgerows  beyond  "Wendlebury,  and  she  had 
no  doubt  that  the  favourable  let  was  a  distinct  answer  to 
many  prayers  said  in  the  white  bedroom  once  haunted 
by  Mary  Jane.  A  life  with  a  faith  like  Miss  Amelia's  is 
set  to  such  a  lovely  tune  that  it  is  always  catching  vibra- 
tions from  the  high  rooms  of  heaven. 

All  the  same,  she  felt  a  little  perturbed  by  the  time 
she  reached  Kyeford  Terrace,  despite  a  cup  of  tea  in 
prospect  and  a  piece  of  pleasant  news  to  tell.  For  she 
had  met  Mary  Carter  on  the  way  and  had  heard  how  Un- 
win,  pausing  Paris-like  between  two  girls,  had  publicly 
tossed  the  apple  of  his  open  regard  to  Delia  Lambert. 

"Not  that  Pauline  cares.  As  good  fish  in  the  sea  ..." 
Mary  Carter  had  concluded.  "Girls  don't  bother  about 
admirers  as  they  did  in  your  day,  Miss  Amelia.  At  least 
there's  a  sort  that  does,  but  all  the  rest  don't."  She  paused 
and  added  with  absolute  truth:  "I'm  sure  I  don't.  Too 
busy  to  bother  my  head.  So  long  as  a  man  plays  tennis 
well,  that's  all  I  mind." 

"How  sensible!"  Miss  Amelia  had  responded,  but  she 
was  now  approaching  Aunt  Dickson's  house  with  a  cer- 
tain knowledge,  derived  she  did  not  know  whence,  that  the 
"as  good  fish  in  the  sea"  principle  would  never  apply  to 
Pauline.  Some  subtle  bond  of  sympathy  between  the 
highly  educated  modern  girl  trained  in  a  London  office 
and  the  old  country  woman  who  had  never  gone  further 
than  compound  long  division,  made  her  know  that  Pauline 
belonged  to  the  women  whose  heart's  lock  only  one  key 
will  fit. 

This  company  is  a  larger  one  than  some  think,  and 
members  of  it  may  be  met  all  over  the  world,  so  that  in 
old  English  villages  and  New  England  towns  and  hotels 
in  Switzerland  you  may  see  charming  and  pretty  old  maids 


THE  DAY  AFTER  201 

— a  pretty  term  so  mishandled — on  every  side.  You  may 
hear  the  same  remark;  "I  wonder  why  she  has  never 
married!"  offered  everywhere  like  a  bouquet  of  roses 
to  some  oldish,  unmarried  woman:  and  the  reason  is  that 
the  man  with  the  key  either  never  met  her,  or  was  so  busy 
looking  at  some  one  else  he  did  not  see  her,  or  he  has 
proved  unfaithful  or  died;  and  no  other  can  open  the 
door  of  that  closed  heart. 

It  was  Pauline's  misfortune  to  be  of  this  company — 
a  misfortune  because  the  happiness  of  married  love  be- 
comes dependent  on  a  single  chance — so  Miss  Amelia,  who 
knew  all  this  without  being  aware  of  her  knowledge,  felt 
perturbed  as  she  went  up  the  little  garden,  though  she 
nodded  to  Aunt  Dickson  at  the  open  window  with  a  face 
wreathed  in  smiles  and  fluted  out  cheerfully — 

"We  have  let  our  house!  I  had  to  pop  in  and  tell 
you  the  good  news." 

Instantly,  it  was  Aunt  Dickson 's  house  that  had  been 
let,  and  Aunt  Dickson 's  money  troubles  lightened — 
though  she  never  had  any — so  eagerly  did  she  rejoice  with 
Miss  Amelia. 

"Tea!"  she  cried,  pressing  the  tortoise  until  the  elec- 
tric bell  whizzed  through  the  house  and  Eva  came  run- 
ning, hands  red  with  soap-suds,  aware  somehow  that 
something  nice  had  happened,  and  that  she  must  hasten 
to  carry  round  the  Wendlebury  substitute  for  .nectar 
amid  that  atmosphere  of  Olympian  festival  which  Aunt 
Dickson  seemed  able  to  create  out  of  nothing. 

"Eva  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Miss  Amelia  has 
let  her  house,"  said  that  lady  at  once,  bursting  with  the 
good  news.  And  there  in  a  single  sentence  you  had  it. 
Eva  was  so  jolly  responsive  even  on  washing-day,  finding 
nothing  a  trouble,  because  she  was  so  intimately  a  part  of 
it  all. 

"Well!  Miss,  that  is  a  blessing,"  she  said,  beaming 
on  Miss  Amelia.  "But  we  must  all  have  our  ups  an' 
downs,  I  s'pose,  and  the  only  way  is  to  take  'em  as  they 


202  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

come.  It's  no  use,  as  my  poor  Mother  used  to  say,  for  to- 
cry  at  night  because  it  isn't  next  morning."  She  paused, 
lowering  her  voice  to  the  confidential  note.  "One  thing 
always  puzzles  me,  though.  At  least  it  would  if  I  went 
on  puzzling,  but  I  don't.  Same  as  them  metal  rings  that 
you  try  and  try  and  can't,  until  you  want  to  chuck  'em 
at  somebody's  head.  Nobody  can't  puzzle  you  with  'em, 
if  you  put  'em  down  and  won't  be  puzzled,  can  they?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Amelia  politely,  beaming  with  Eva 
because  of  her  excellent  qualities. 

"But  it  does  seem  to  me,"  pursued  Eva,  "that  there's 
two  sets  of  folks  in  the  world,  them  that  gets  hit  and 
bounces,  and  them  that  gets  hit  and  stops  flat. ' '  She  low- 
ered her  voice  still  further.  "And  it  would  seem  to  me, 
if  I  wasn't  a  believer,  that  Them  Above  hits  the  bouncey 
sort  more  than  the  others  for  the  fun  o'  seeing  'em 
bounce — for  that  kind  always  gets  more  knocks."  She 
took  up  a  tray  and  went  towards  the  door,  not  noting 
the  shocked  expression  on  Miss  Amelia's  face.  "All  the 
same,  I'm  glad  I  was  born  a  bouncer." 

"Oh,  here  is  Pauline,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  glad  to 
change  the  subject  because  of  the  worried  look  on  Miss 
Amelia's  face,  which  showed  her  to  be  striving,  in  spite 
of  the  word  of  warning,  to  solve  the  theological  puzzle 
set  by  Eva.  "Now,  talking  of  puzzles  always  reminds 
me  of  Mrs.  Delamere :  she  brought  me  one  last  week.  And 
I  want  Pauline  to  tell  you  that  tale  about  her  and  the 
fortune-telling  lady. ' ' 

Pauline  frowned. 

"I  only  told  it  to  amuse  you,"  she  said  quickly.  "The 
whole  thing  happened  some  time  ago.  It  is  not  worth  re- 
peating. ' ' 

But  Miss  Amelia  perked  up,  growing  a  little  flushed 
and  bright-eyed. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  Mrs.  Delamere  had  her 
fortune  told?  Why,  she  must  be  contemplating  a  second 
alliance."  For  even  when  absent  the  great  lady  of  Wen- 


THE  DAY  AFTER  203 

•dlebury  demanded  from  simple  Miss  Amelia  a  certain 
choice  of  language.  "Who  can  it  be?  Not — not  the 
Duke?  He  is  a  widower  and  I  saw  him  speak  to  her  at 
the  Castle  Flower  Show  in  June.  I  am  sure  ..." 

''Stop!  Oh,  please  stop!"  cried  Pauline,  half  laughing 
and  half  annoyed.  "I  did  not  say  that  Mrs.  Delamere 
consulted  Miss  Lambert  about  her  matrimonial  prospects. 
She  went  on  quite  a  different  errand." 

"Who  told  you  so?"  said  Miss  Amelia,  evidently  cling- 
ing to  her  own  idea. 

"Mrs.  Chubb." 

"Ah!"  Miss  Amelia  gave  a  tiny  sigh  of  relief  which 
said  plainly,  "Only  Mrs.  Chubb!"  Then  she  continued: 
"Mrs.  Chubb  could  not  know.  She  could  not  be  there." 

"But  she  was,"  boomed  Aunt  Dickson,  enjoying  the 
dramatic  full  stop. 

"It  was  in  this  way,"  explained  Pauline,  anxious  to  get 
in  the  plain  tale.  "Mrs.  Delamere  called  on  Miss  Lam- 
bert asking  her  to  do  palmistry  for  nothing  at  an  after- 
noon party  on  behalf  of  the  Working  Guild,  and  Mrs. 
Chubb  chanced  to  be  cleaning  in  the  passage  with  the 
door  open." 

"So  like  Mrs.  Chubb,"  murmured  Miss  Amelia;  "and 
what  did  Miss  Lambert  do?" 

"Well,"  said  Pauline,  "she  refused." 

"Shy,  perhaps,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "And  what  hap- 
pened then?" 

"Mrs.  Delamere  went  at  once  and  complained  to  the 
police  authorities,"  said  Pauline.  "That  was,  I  suppose, 
the  real  reason  Miss  Lambert  got  into  trouble." 

' '  Ah !  I  remember ;  the  time  when  Mr.  Unwin  went 
to  the  rescue,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  But  noticing  how  the 
blood  rushed  into  Pauline's  face  at  this  bracketing  of 
Unwin  and  Delia  she  became  anxious  to  make  amends  and 
continued  rather  incoherently:  "Of  course,  any  gentle- 
man .  .  .  beauty  in  distress  ...  at  least  a  graceful  figure 
though  high  cheek-bones  .  .  .  impossible  to  avoid  coming 


204  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

to  her  assistance.  .  .  .  Nothing  in  it  at  all,  no  doubt." 

"Mr.  Unwin  is  very  friendly  with  Miss  Lambert,  I 
believe,"  said  Pauline  steadily,  trying  to  ignore  her  own 
burning  cheeks.  "He  could  do  no  less  than  give  her  any 
help  in  his  power." 

"Yes  .  .  .  always  so  kind  .  .  .  Mary  Jane.  .  .  .  But," 
she  added  wistfully:  "I  sometimes  wish  I  had  never  in- 
terfered with  Mary  Jane.  I  sometimes  think  that  a  ghost, 
even  if  you  only  think  it  a  ghost,  is  better  left  alone." 

"But  why!"  demanded  Aunt  Dickson. 

"No  reason,  exactly,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  sighing  again, 
for  she  was  feeling  responsible,  via  Mary  Jane  and  the 
chain  of  incidents  which  followed,  for  Pauline's  unsuc- 
cessful love-affair.  The  two  young  people  first  drew  to- 
gether during  that  episode,  and  now  dear  Pauline,  like 
herself,  seemed  about  to  lose  the  sweetest  thing  in  life. 
She  could  have  found  it  in  her  gentle  heart  to  administer 
rat  poison  to  the  innocent  Mary  Jane,  could  such  an  act 
have  put  events  back  as  they  were  before. 

She  rose,  therefore,  vaguely  sensible  that  this  mur- 
derous frame  of  mind  was  not  one  in  which  to  converse 
with  an  invalid — a  person  always  by  some  inverted  rule 
supposed  to  be  better  than  others  with  every  excuse  for 
being  worse — and  so  sighed  herself  out  of  the  room  and 
down  the  clean  steps  again  into  the  street.  A  few  yards 
away  she  turned  round  to  look  back  affectionately  at 
Pauline,  who  had  just  ushered  her  out  with  the  gay  ten- 
derness which  refreshes  tired  elderly  people  like  the  hear- 
ing of  clear  water  on  a  hot,  dusty  road — but  only  if  it 
springs  up  from  the  heart,  otherwise  it  is  like  the  irri- 
tation of  water  dripping  from  a  tap  out  of  order. 

Pauline,  however,  possessed  this  natural  tenderness  for 
old  people,  and  their  need  of  her  in  some  way  dispersed 
that  reserve  which  was  apt  to  set  her  apart  from  those 
nearer  her  own  age:  a  reserve  of  which  she  herself  re- 
mained quite  unconscious  though  she  knew  that  she  was 


THE  DAY  AFTER  205 

no  good,  as  she  sometimes  regretfully  said,  at  making 
friends  quickly. 

But  there  was  a  true  friendship  between  the  girl  on 
the  doorstep  in  her  grey  muslin  gown  and  the  lady  step- 
ping down  the  street  between  the  narrow  grey  houses 
edged  with  flowers  beneath  a  grey  sky — a  little  harmony' 
of  things  not  splendid  but  somehow  lovely. 

Miss  Amelia  paused  before  her  own  house  in  passing 
and  hesitated,  face  flushed,  delicate  features  working; 
the  very  cat  on  the  railing,  blinking  at  her  with  one  eye, 
knew  that  she  was  in  the  throes  of  some  desperate  struggle 
between  "I  will"  and  "I  really  can't."  The  cat,  who 
tepidly  liked  Miss  Amelia,  purred  gently:  "Don't,  then, 
don't!  Keep  your  own  corner.  Take  your  own  ease. 
Why  worry?" 

Under  this  insidious  influence  Miss  Amelia  took  two 
steps  towards  her  own  safe,  comfortable  corner,  then  the 
thought  of  Pauline's  face  when  Unwin  and  Delia  were 
mentioned  together  stirred  the  "I  will"  into  action  and 
she  trotted  hurriedly  round  the  corner  into  the  market 
place.  Several  people  spoke  to  her  in  passing,  and  she 
gave  such  vague  answers  that  they  turned  round,  looking 
after  her,  to  remark  that  Miss  Harriet's  illness  seemed 
to  have  aged  poor  Miss  Amelia. 

At  last  she  turned  into  the  road  near  the  Bowling 
Green  Inn,  and,  hearing  from  afar  the  familiar,  raucous 
"Mary  Jane,"  she  clenched  her  slender  fist  in  the  black 
kid  glove  with  fingers  a  little  too  large  and  hissed  between 
her  lips:  "You  odious  bird!  If  I  could  not  say  more 
than  that,  I  would  keep  quiet."  Immediately  the  Jack- 
daw obliged  with  "Damn  your  eye!"  and  having  ended 
his  vocabulary  relapsed  into  silence. 

Miss  Amelia  shuddered  slightly.  This  did  indeed  seem 
a  fitting  prologue  for  the  visit  she  was  about  to  pay.  A 
faint  sulphurous  smell  from  a  gas-works  not  far  off  com- 
pleted the  illusion.  She  knocked  at  the  respectable  door 
of  the  little  dressmaker  with  a  subconscious  feeling  that 


S0§  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

a  gentleman  in  red,  with  horns,  hoofs  and  tail  might  open 
it,  and  when  Delia  appeared  she  was  only  partially  reas- 
sured, for  a  person  who  could  hypnotise  Unwin  and  Chubb 
might  also,  no  doubt,  if  she  wished,  exercise  her  nefarious 
powers  on  the  female  sex. 

This  was  not  what  Miss  Amelia  thought — for  she  was 
a  decently  educated  maiden  lady  of  modern  times — but 
it  was  what  she  felt;  and,  fear  being  always  more  con- 
cerned with  feeling  than  conviction,  her  voice  shook  as  she 
quavered  out  nervously — 

"Are  you  at  home?  At  least,  I  see  ...  If  I  might 
...  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  on  a  private  matter  of  some 
importance. ' ' 

"Come  in,"  said  Delia.  "But  you  know  I  have  under- 
taken not  to  do  any  more  fortune-telling  in  Wendlebury. 
You  would  hear  that  I  nearly  got  run  in  because  of  my 
palmistry  ? ' ' 

Miss  Amelia's  failing  resolution  was  stiffened  a  little 
by  this  casual  and  barefaced  mention  of  an  episode,  which 
any  right-minded  female  would  know  to  be  an  unspeak- 
able disgrace. 

"I  did,  indeed,  hear/'  she  said  in  a  tone  which  caused 
the  pleasant  smile  to  fade  from  her  hostess'  face. 

"Pray  sit  down,"  responded  Delia,  and  so  obviously 
waited  to  know  Miss  Amelia's  business  that  the  poor  lady 
— blinking  her  eyes  and  feeling  like  an  inexperienced 
diver  about  to  dive  into  deep  water — said,  breathlessly 
plunging— 

"Wendlebury  is  a  place  where  a  good  deal  of  gossip 
goes  on." 

"Yes?"  said  Delia. 

"I  thought — I  thought,  perhaps — you  did  not  know 
this." 

"As  Wendlebury  is  in  the  world  I  could  scarcely  help 
knowing  it." 

"London "  Miss  Amelia  choked  a  little,  desperately, 


THE  DAY  AFTER  207 

as  it  were,  keeping  her  head  above  water.  "London — 
such  large  places — they  don't,  I  believe." 

"There's  no  greater  gossip  shop  than  the  House  of 
Commons,  I  am  told,"  said  Delia,  refusing  to  help  Miss 
Amelia  at  all. 

"But  not — not  about  the  same  things — about  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  are  not  engaged  or  married  being 
too  friendly,  for  instance?"  gasped  Miss  Amelia,  going 
under,  head  and  all.  But  Delia  felt  no  pity  for  the  little 
trembling  lady;  she  was  gripped  by  a  bitter  remembrance 
of  that  early  girlhood,  when  "talk"  had  driven  her  away 
from  the  safe  shelter  of  her  own  home  into  a  world  where 
she  had  suffered  so  deeply  and  had  found  in  the  end  only 
the  faults  of  the  outcast.  She  looked  back  past  Miss 
Amelia,  down  the  years,  and  saw  the  girl  she  was  then, 
with  grave  faults  indeed,  but  high  possibilities;  she  felt  a 
sudden  impulse  to  punish  this  woman  who  came  babbling 
to  her  of  Wendlebury  gossip,  trying  to  spoil  the  best  and 
cleanest  friendship  she  had  ever  known. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  the  friendship  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen — as  you  so  prettily  phrase  it — as  the 
source  of  gossip  is  universal.  It  binds  in  happy  com- 
munion those  wearing  bearskins  and  eating  blubber  with 
others  eating  rice  and  wearing  nothing  at  all.  An  inter- 
esting thought." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  murmured  the  distracted  Miss  Amelia. 
"Oh,  most  interesting,  of  course  .  .  .  Child's  guide  to 
knowledge  ...  I  well  remember  wondering  how  the 
Esquimaux  could  possibly  ...  oil  always  makes  me  so 
bilious  even  in  salad.  ..."  She  breathed  deeply,  a  wild 
effort  to  get  back  to  her  purpose  by  tactful  degrees.  ' '  Now 
some  people  never  suffer  from  biliousness  ...  I  should 
say  Mr.  Unwin  .  .  .  such  a  clear  complexion  .  .  . 
shouldn't  you?" 

"I  have  never  asked  him,"  said  Delia.  "I  will  re- 
member to  do  so.  He  has  no  woman  to  look  after  his 
health,  poor  fellow!" 


208  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Miss  Amelia  clasped  her  hands  and  took  the  opening 
provided  for  her. 

"No  single  lady  has  any  right  to  look  after  any  single 
gentleman's  health  unless  they  are  engaged,  Miss  Lam- 
bert. Do  I  understand  that  you  and  he  .  .  .?" 

"You  do  not,"  said  Delia;  "at  least  from  me.  But 
you  sent  Mr.  Unwin  some  black-currant  jelly  when  he 
had  a  cold  without  being  engaged.  And  I  am  sure  you 
would  never  be  guilty  of  an  impropriety." 

"That  is  different.  I  am  an  old  woman  compared  with 
Mr.  Unwin,"  said  Miss  Amelia. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Delia. 

"Oh,  yes,"  agreed  Miss  Amelia  readily;  so  very  readily 
that  the  irresponsible  Delia  gave  an  involuntary  inward 
chuckle  which  suddenly  changed  her  black  mood  into  a 
mere  malicious  desire  to  torment  the  inquisitor. 

"You  have  come,  in  fact,"  said  Delia,  "like  a  lady  of 
melodrama  to  ask  me  to  release  Mr.  Unwin  from  my 
clutches.  Is  that  not  so?" 

"Oh,  no  ...  I  did  not  mean  ...  I  only  feared  you 
might  not  realise  ..."  fluttered  Miss  Amelia.  ' '  I  thought 
we  might  perhaps  just  talk  things  over  in  a  friendly 
way." 

Delia  rose  and  went  to  the  mantelpiece,  whence  she 
took  a  cigarette  case  and  a  box  of  matches. 

"Well,"  she  remarked,  "I  am  ready  to  hear  what 
you  have  to  say.  But  no  self-respecting  villain  or  vil- 
lainess  ever  talked  a  situation  over  without  a  cigar  or 
cigarette.  A  pipe  never  seems  to  aid  the  course  of  in- 
trigue, there  is  something  so  warmly  human  about  it — 
besides  which  I  am  sure  that  even  your  interest  in  Miss 
Westcott  would  never  induce  you  to  smoke  a  pipe." 

"Miss  Westcott!  I  never  mentioned  Pauline's  name," 
said  Miss  Amelia. 

"No,  but  she  was  like  the  old  Emperor  of  China,  all 
the  more  potent  for  not  being  spoken  of, ' '  said  Delia,  hold- 
ing out  the  case.  ' '  Won 't  you  take  one  ? ' ' 


THE  DAY  AFTER  209 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  Miss  Amelia,  rising  with 
dignity. 

"But  I  am  afraid  you  can't  get  to  know  anything 
from  me  without  taking  a  cigarette,"  said  Delia.  "I 
am  very  sorry,  hut  I  cannot  become  confidential  now 
unless  the  person  I  am  talking  to  is  also  smoking.  A 
matter  of  habit,  of  course,  but  there  it  is.  Habit,  as 
you  know,  Miss  Amelia,  is  the  strongest  chain  that  binds 
the  human  will." 

"But  I  can't — I  don't  know  how,"  said  Miss  Amelia, 
almost  whimpering. 

"Then  I  can't,  either.  So  we  come  to  a  deadlock," 
said  Delia,  with  decision. 

Reluctantly,  tremblingly,  Miss  Amelia  held  out  her 
hand  and  took  a  cigarette,  holding  it  as  if  it  were  red-hot, 
and  indeed  the  thought  passed  through  her  confused  brain 
that  if  this  were  not  holding  a  candle  to  the  devil  it  was 
at  least  lighting  a  cigarette  because  of  a  lady  too  in- 
timately acquainted  with  him.  Only  her  love  for  Pauline 
could  have  made  her  stammer  forth  as  she  did — 

"W- which  end?     I-Is  there  any  difference?" 

Delia  almost  relented  then,  but  all  the  bitterness  had 
not  yet  departed  and  her  eyes  were  cruel  despite  the 
twinkle  in  them  as  she  replied  gravely — 

"Either  will  do,  unless  they  are  gold  tipped.  Got  a 
light?" 

"Y-yes,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  recalling  far-off  days  when 
she  made  soap  blubbles  and  blowing  diffidently  through 
the  odious  thing  in  a  like  fashion.  Then  she  coughed, 
and  cried,  choking:  "The  window!  The  window!" 

"You're  ill!"  exclaimed  Delia,  snatching  away  the 
cigarette.  "Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  ill.  But 
you  haven't  had  time  yet,  surely."  And  she  flung  up 
the  window. 

"No,  no,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  faintly  smiling  back.  "I 
didn't  mean  open  the  window.  I  meant  pull  down  the 
blind.  Mrs.  Delamere  is  passing." 


210  THE  GiOSSIP  SHOP 

"She  can't  see  through  me,"  said  Delia,  moved  to 
reassure  in  spite  of  everything.  "I  am  between  you  and 
the  window,  you  know." 

Miss  Amelia  dabbed  a  small  lawn  handkerchief  upon 
her  brow. 

"Mrs.  Delamere  is  so  particular.  She  objects  to  nearly 
everything.  A  breath — and  you  are  done  for  with  Mrs. 
Delamere." 

Delia  stood  looking  down  at  Miss  Amelia,  and  a  certain 
hardness  and  cruelty  which  was  not  a  part  of  her  nature 
but  a  deposit  life  had  laid  on  it,  showed  in  her  expression. 
At  last  she  said  slowly — 

"Then  none  of  the  Delamere  army  have  ever  erred? 
No  scandal  has  ever  touched  them?" 

"There  imay  have  been  something — very  long  ago," 
said  Miss  Amelia  nervously.  "But  Lord  Southwater  and 
Mrs.  Delamere  never  mention  it,  of  course,  and  we  do  not 
either.  Everybody  has  relations  whom  they  wish  to  for- 
get," added  the  little  lady  simply. 

"But  what  if  .Richard  Delamere  came  back?"  said 
Delia,  a  perverse  whim  seizing  her  to  break  this  ring  of 
silence  that  surrounded  the  dead  man.  "What  would 
they  do  then?" 

Miss  Amelia  gazed  up  at  Delia,  startled  by  something 
she  could  not  understand. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  she  said  helplessly.  "I  fear  they 
would  find  it  very  inconvenient." 

"Inconvenient!"  said  Delia,  and  for  a  moment  she 
stood  staring  before  her,  still  with  that  odd  inward  gaze: 
then  she  turned  to  Miss  Amelia  and  said  in  a  different 
tone — 

"Well,  I  don't  think  they  need  be  afraid  of  ever  hear- 
ing his  name  again.  That's  over." 

"What  is?  You  speak  as  if  you  had  known  him,  Miss 
Lambert,"  said  Miss  Amelia. 

"Do  I?    Oh,  that  is  just  your  fancy,"  said  Delia;  then 


THE  DAY  AFTER  211 

she  added  abruptly,  "Well,  what  is  it  you  want?  Or 
have  we  talked  things  over  enough  already?" 

"I  want  ..."  said  Miss  Amelia.  ''Oh,  dear,  it  sounds 
so  unpleasant." 

"Don't  say  it  then,"  responded  Delia. 

"Oh,  but  I  must.  It  is  what  I  came  for,"  said  Miss 
Amelia.  "I — I  want  you  to  go  away  from  Wendlebury 
at  once  and  never  come  back  any  more." 

"Like  poor  Delamere." 

"I  really  don't  know  why  you  will  persist  in  dragging 
him  in,"  said  Miss  Amelia  agitatedly,  beginning  to  weep 
a  little.  "  I  'm  sure  I  hate  being  unkind. ' ' 

"But  you  think  that  if  I  leave  everything  will  go 
right?"  said  Delia.  "Mr.  Unwin  will  return  to  your 
Pauline  and  all  will  be  happy  ever  after?" 

"I  hope  so,"  faltered  Miss  Amelia.  "And  I  am  sure 
you  would  prefer  a  large  town  where  you  could  do  as 
you  like  and  no  one  say  anything.  I  am  sure  you  would 
be  sorry  to  get  Mr.  Unwin  talked  about  in  return  for 
all  his  kindness." 

"Then  you  think  my  friendship  is  injuring  Mr.  Un- 
win?" said  Delia.  "Well,  he  leaves  Wendlebury  in  a 
fortnight  himself,  so  that  cannot  matter  much  now." 

Miss  Amelia  moved  crestfallen  towards  the  door,  mur- 
muring as  she  went — 

"I'm  told  ...  in  love  affairs  ...  a  great  deal  may 
happen  in  a  brief  space  of  time." 

Again  Delia  smiled,  but  on  this  occasion  the  odd  ex- 
pression— the  something  between  cruelty  and  mischief — 
which  had  made  her  flattish  nose  and  high  cheek-bones 
and  long  eyes  singularly  resemble  a  cat  tormenting  a 
mouse,  now  gave  place  to  her  old  look  of  careless  good- 
nature. 

"Let  us  part  friends,  won't  you?"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand.  "You  know  we  liked  each  other  when 
you  came  to  have  your  fortune  told,  did  we  not  ? ' ' 


212  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Miss  Amelia  took  the  hand  held  out,  though  with  some 
reluctance. 

"I  am  aware  that  this  has  been  an  unwarrantable  in- 
trusion, Miss  Lambert,"  she  said  sadly.  "But  when  you 
care  for  people  you  do  things  .  .  .  perhaps  you  may  not 
understand.  ..." 

"I  think  I  understand.  Good-bye,  Miss  Amelia,"  said 
Miss  Lambert  very  gently. 

And  in  that  moment  the  good  in  Delia  answered  the 
good  in  Miss  Amelia  very  plainly,  just  as  it  had  done 
during  their  first  interview.  One  of  those  unspoken  con- 
versations in  which  what  people  are  does  all  the  talking, 
began  beautifully  and  might  have  led — as  such  often  do — 
to  beautiful  things  happening;  when  Miss  Amelia  broke 
out  into  articulate  words,  saying  very  distinctly — 

"Then  you  will  kindly  tell  Miss  Walker  to  put  another 
width  in  my  green  skirt." 

"Green  skirt!"  echoed  Delia. 

And  she  saw  Mrs.  Delamere  just  across  the  street, 
flashing  every  tooth  in  her  head  at  the  Eural  Dean. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    TENNIS    CLUB 

EVA,  opening  the  front  door  for  Pauline,  peered  up  at 
the  blue  sky  flecked  with  clouds  and  remarked:  "I 
nope  it'll  hold  up.  It  has  rained  once  this  morning," 
thus  bearing  unconscious  witness  to  the  fact  that  it  must 
rain  every  day  in  Wendlebury.  "You  want  fine  weather 
this  afternoon,  for  they  say  that  Mr.  Unwin " 

"I  really  wish "  began  Pauline. 

"Oh,  well!"  said  Eva,  accepting  the  rebuke  before  it 
came.  "You'll  never  make  me  keep  my  mouth  shut. 
Us  Martins  was  always  newsy.  Still,  there's  fors  and 
againsts.  The  world's  a  bad  enough  place  as  it  is,  Miss 
Pauline,  but  just  you  think  of  the  awful  things  people 
would  do  that  they  don't,  if  only  they  weren't  so  fright- 
ened of  being  talked  about." 

Pauline  descended  the  steps  without  pursuing  the  sub- 
ject further,  and  walked  rather  slowly  down  the  street. 
The  sheer  white  linen  of  her  tennis  dress  seemed  to  rob 
her  of  that  elusive  charm  which  her  grey  gowns  served  to 
heighten.  Miss  Amelia,  watching  her  go  by,  was  not  far 
wrong  in  saying  that  Pauline  looked  "somehow  quenched." 

"Somehow  quenched!"  retorted  Miss  Harriet  from  her 
sofa.  "My  dear  Amelia,  one  would  never  imagine  from 
your  mode  of  speech  that  our  father  had  allowed  us  a 
liberal  education.  A  daughter  of  William  Pritchard 
should  speak  refined  English  as  instinctively  as  she  uses 
her  pocket-handkerchief." 

Miss  Amelia,  always  responsive  to  suggestion,  felt  her 

213 


214  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

nose-end  tickle  and  blew  her  nose,  saying  rather  sharply — 

"It  seems  a  little  hard  that  you  should  always  go  on 
reminding  me  that  you  won  the  Grammar  Prize  at  school, 
and  I  did  not,  Harriet.  I  should  liave  thought  you 
might  let  it  drop  after  all  these  years." 

Then  each  knitted  in  silence,  or  rather  Miss  Amelia 
fidgeted  in  her  chair  by  the  window  and  clicked  an  in- 
termittent stitch  or  two,  keeping  one  eye  ever  on  the  pave- 
ment outside,  until  Miss  Harriet  remarked  with  justifi- 
able annoyance — 

"Really,  Amelia,  if  you  have  contracted  a  denizen  of 
the  poultry  yard,  you  would  do  well  to  retire  and  re- 
move it  at  once.  Your  restlessness  is  unbearable." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "I  am  only  watching 
for  Mr.  Unwin.  I  wish  to  speak  to  him  as  he  passes  and 
he  is  sure  to  go  to  the  tennis  club  this  afternoon." 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?"  said  Miss  Harriet. 

"Oh,  just  to  say  good-bye,"  murmured  Miss  Amelia, 
turning  pink  from  forehead  to  chin.  "I  may  not  see 
him  again.  Oh!  here  he  is!"  And  as  she  hurried  front 
the  room  Miss  Harriet  called  after  her — 

"You  may  give  him  my  best  wishes.  He  was  exceed- 
ingly obliging  about  that  ridiculous  jackdaw." 

But  Miss  Amelia  had  already  reached  the  pavement 
outside.  Her  grey  hair,  which  had  been  so  long  light 
mixed  with  grey,  and  then  grey  mixed  with  light,  that 
this  sign  of  age  had  crept  unawares  upon  her,  was  blowing 
rather  untidily  in  the  breeze. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Unwin!"  she  said  in  a  low,  hurried  voice, 
looking  up  and  down  the  street  like  a  white  mouse  turned 
conspirator.  "The  jewels.  .  .  .  Here  is  the  money  .  .  . 
gold,  lest  the  notes  be  traced." 

"Jewels!"  said  Unwin  stupidly.  Then  he  remembered 
and  clapped  his  hand  to  his  pocket.  "Bless  my  soul, 
yes!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  have  the  pawn  tickets  here.  I 
meant  to  go  round  for  them  at  lunch-time  to-day." 

"Could    you "    Miss    Amelia    paused.      "Do    you 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  215 

think  you  could  add  to  all  your  great  kindness  by  bring- 
ing them  to  our  back  door  after  dark?  Our  new  maid 
will  be  having  her  night  out  then." 

"All  right,"  said  Unwin,  and  he  smiled  very  kindly 
down  upon  the  little  lady. 

"You're  sure  you  don't  mind?"  said  Miss  Amelia  anx- 
iously. "And  please  do  not  think  it  odd  if  you  hear  me 
calling  you  the  butter.  It  comes  very  late  on  a  Friday 
evening,  and  my  sister  Harriet  will  perhaps  require  some 
explanation  of  your  knock.  Oh,  I  do  dislike  such  untruth- 
fulness,  but  when  you  once  begin "  And  such  was  the 

wistful  seriousness  of  Miss  Amelia's  glance  that  Unwin 
felt  constrained  to  reply  with  equal  seriousness:  "You 
did  it  for  the  best." 

Then  they  said  farewell  and  he  pursued  his  way  to 
the  tennis  club,  where  he  managed,  as  usual,  to  convey 
the  impression  that  he  rode  on  the  crest  of  the  wave. 
He  was  helped  in  this  by  his  natural  buoyancy  of  step, 
bright  eyes  and  cleanness  of  outline,  but  intention  was 
there  too.  The  quality  in  his  temperament,  vanity  or 
pluck  or  whatever  it  might  be,  which  made  him  so  hate 
to  be  pitied,  was  at  this  moment  in  danger  of  swamping 
every  other  consideration.  All  his  bright  mind  and  will 
ministered  to  it  so  willingly  that  he  was  not  in  the  least 
conscious  of  playing  a  part  as  he  greeted  the  group  of 
people  standing  near  the  summer  house. 

It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  sun  seemed 
to  have  gained  colour  from  slanting  all  day  across  corn- 
fields nearly  ripe  for  harvest.  The  clear,  cool  golden 
light,  quite  different  from  southern  sunshine,  and  the 
vivid  green  of  the  grass,  and  the  red  and  white  of  the 
pleasant  English  faces,  made  a  picture  that  Unwin  was 
to  keep  always  in  that  strange  gallery  of  the  mind  where 
no  one  can  by  effort  fill  a  single  space.  Pauline  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  a  tree;  the  crudeness  of  her  white  gown 
had  changed  to  every  lovely  tone  of  dappled  grey  and 
gold.  She  was  hatless,  and  her  hair  stood  out  sombrely 


216  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

^nid  her  delicate,  pointed  features.     Her  elusive  charm 

1  returned  now,  and  her  absolute  stillness  as  she  stood 

ere  throbbing  with  life  and  passion  and  vitality  vaguely 
impressed  Unwin.  He  felt  forced  to  look  at  her,  and 
i  glanced  away,  and  then  looked  again ;  so  long  as  she 
remained  silent,  she  was  his.  But  when  Mary  Carter 
made  some  laughing  remark  to  her,  which  she  answered, 
the  spell  began  to  lose  power.  Then  the  Vicar  blew  a  blast 
upon  his  nose,  and  Unwin 's  magic  castle  which  had  sprung 
up  so  wonderfully  in  an  instant  fell  down  flat,  not  even 
a  trace  of  it  was  left. 

"Our  Vice-President!"  announced  the  Vicar's  wife,  ap- 
parently making  the  blast  useful  to  trumpet  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere's  approach. 

"Not  often  we  see  Mrs.  Delamere  here,"  said  Unwin. 

"There's  my  father!"  said  Mary  Carter.  "You  see  him 
at  a  tennis  club  more  seldom  still." 

"Better  have  it  at  once,"  murmured  young  Carter, 
wearing  the  air  of  a  Cabinet  Minister  at  least. 

"This  sort  of  thing  wants  to  appear  easy  and  natural; 
nothing  stiff,"  murmured  a  lean  man  from  the  bank; 
then  he  added,  loudly:  "Mr.  Vicar,  I  think  you  prom- 
ised  " 

' '  Ahem ! ' '  coughed  the  Vicar  at  once,  not  because  his 
throat  was  sore,  but  because  in  his  callow  curate-hood 
he  had  been  wont  so  to  reassure  himself,  and  it  had  grown 
into  a  habit.  "I  am  sure,  my  dear  friends,  you  have  not 
come  here  to  hear  me  talk.  Plenty  of  that  at  other  times, 
eh?"  And  he  paused  for  the  tinkle  of  laughter  which 
obediently  followed.  "We  are  here  to  wish  our  young 
friend  good  luck,  and  I  am  sure  I  voice  the  sentiments 
of  all  present  when  I  say  that  he  will  be  greatly  missed 
in  this  tennis  club.  The  welfare  of  the  town  itself  is  not 
a  matter  to  enlarge  upon  on  such  an  occasion  as  the 
present,  still  Mr.  Unwin 's  connection  with  architecture 
brings  one  naturally  in  touch  with  the  great  question  of 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  217 

the  town  water  supply,  and  I  will  just  ask  you  to  bear 
with  me  for  a  few  moments  while  I " 

But  here  somebody  sacrificed  two  cups  and  a  saucer, 
the  property  of  the  club,  to  the  general  success  of  the 
occasion,  it  being  a  known  fact  that  when  the  Vicar 
asked  the  AVendlebury  folk  to  bear  with  him  for  a  few 
moment  nothing  less  than  an  earthquake  would  stop 
him  short  of.  half  an  hour,  and  the  waiting  Mrs.  Delamere 
already  began  to  wear  a  pained,  perfunctory  smile.  The 
crash  was  followed  by  exclamations  and  surmises  as  to 
how  it  could  possibly  have  happened,  and  young  Carter 
hastened  to  say — 

"We  will  now  call  upon  our  Vice-President  to  perform 
the  office  which  she  has  so  graciously  undertaken  to 
perform." 

Mrs.  Delamere  stepped  forward,  flashed  her  teeth  bril- 
liantly on  every  one,  even  including  Pauline,  and  said 
in  the  high,  made-up  voice  used  by  many  ladies  in  public 
speaking — 

"I  am  sure  it  is  a  very  great  pleasure  to  me  to  be 
present  this  afternoon.  Mr.  Unwin  is  going  to  a  land 
where  young  men  are  needed,  and  no  doubt  he  will — 
will — will Here  Mrs.  Delamere  endeavoured  to  con- 
sult a  card  concealed  in  her  glove,  but  being  unable  to 
abstract  it,  she  continued  extempore:  "will  do  better 
than  he  has  done  here.  I  mean  a  hot  climate  more  suited 
— that  is —  She  regained  both  head  and  card  to- 

gether. "I  have  great  pleasure  in  handing  this  cigarette 
case  to  Mr.  Unwin,  and  I  trust  that  as  he  inhales  the  fra- 
grant weed  amid  palms  and  prosperity  he  will  often  re- 
member the  Wendlebury  Tennis  Club." 

"Hear!    Hear!"  said  every  one. 

"Very  neat!"  said  the  lean  man  from  the  bank. 

"  It 's  awfully  good  of  you — awfully, ' '  said  Unwin,  bear- 
ing with  some  embarrassment  a  situation  in  which  few  peo- 
ple shine.  "I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  but  I  shall 
think  about  you  all  often  enough,  no  fear." 


218  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

And,  indeed,  his  gay  assumption  of  regretting  nothing 
he  left  behind,  which  had  almost  deceived  even  himself, 
seemed  in  danger  of  failing  as  he  looked  round  at  these 
people  whom  he  had  known  more  or  less  all  his  life,  and 
saw  how  much  real  kindness  and  friendliness  they  felt 
for  him.  Yet  both  to  him  and  them  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  going  away  under  a  cloud,  though  they  did 
their  best  to  make  it  seem  as  if  the  cloud  were  not  there. 
Even  the  attitude  of  Mrs.  Delamere  meant  nothing,  really, 
because  she  would  present  anything  or  open  anything  if 
approached  as  the  chief  lady  of  Wendlebury,  lest  some 
one  else  should  usurp  her  place. 

He  did  not  look  at  Pauline's  face,  but  he  saw  her 
fingers  closing  tightly  over  her  tennis  racket  with  that 
delicate  sureness  of  touch  which  was  so  characteristic  of 
her.  Suddenly,  for  no  reason  at  all  as  it  seemed,  he 
wanted  violently  to  unclasp  them  and  kiss  them  until  his 
lips  were  bruised  with  the  pressure.  Then  he  heard 
Mary  Carter's  sensible,  cheery  voice  saying — 

' '  What  about  another  sett  before  the  light  all  goes  ? ' ' 

Thus  was  the  little  function  brought  to  a  natural  close, 
and  Unwin  realised  what  a  nice  girl  Mary  was,  and  vowed 
to  send  her  beads  or  grasses  or  whatever  can  be  sent  with 
discretion  from  West  Africa  to  a  young  lady  with  whom 
one  has  never  had  any  sentimental  relations. 

The  group  immediately  broke  up,  and  as  the  young 
people  walked  across  the  grass  the  light  was  already  dim 
in  the  far  corner  of  the  field  under  the  beech  trees.  Pauline 
walked  away,  hesitated  until  Unwin  was  momentarily 
alone,  and  then  went  up  to  him. 

"May  I  see  the  cigarette  case  again?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  in  a  formal  tone,  taking  it  from 
his  pocket.  "Such  a  good  design,  isn't  it?" 

"Very." 

"So  kind  of  every  one,"  added  Unwin,  not  knowing 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  219 

exactly  what  he  did  say,  because  Pauline  bent  so  close 
to  him,  peering  at  the  case  in  his  hand. 

"You  really  are  going  next  week?"  she  said,  touching 
the  engraved  inscription. 

"Yes,"  said  Unwin.     "Didn't  you  know?" 

"I  heard  so.    I  supposed  so." 

The  others  passed  on  out  of  hearing  and  they  were 
now  quite  alone.  A  great  many  unspoken  questions 
vibrated  between  them.  At  last  Pauline  said  in  a  low 
voice,  without  looking  at  him — 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Will  you  come  with  me 
under  the  beech  trees?" 

"Yes."  He  hesitated.  "Yes,  if  you  really  want  me 
to." 

She  nodded  and  they  went  on  a  little  way  without 
speaking,  both  instinctively  anxious  to  put  a  greater  dis- 
tance between  themselves  and  the  others  before  saying  any 
more. 

"You'll  wonder "  murmured  Pauline,  flitting  grey 

in  her  white  gown  like  a  spirit  of  the  mist  under  the 
deep  trees. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Unwin  stiffly.  What  game  was  she 
playing  with  him  now  ?  Did  she  want  to  whistle  him  back 
just  at  the  last?  No  fear!  He  was  not  having  any. 

She  stopped  in  the  deepest  shadow  and  waited  for  him 
to  come  up;  her  eyes  burnt  bright,  even  in  that  green 
darkness. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said.  "I  can't  let 
you  go  without  telling  you.  You  shall  not  go  away  dis- 
heartened, thinking  it  is  something  in  you  that  lost  you 
the  post.  You  are  as  capable  and  certain  of  success  as 
ever.  It 's  only  ..."  She  broke  off,  trembling. 

He  pushed  his  head  forward,  staring  into  her  face. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You'll  hear,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "I'm  not  going 
to  think,  and  I'm  not  going  to  care.  You  may  even  tell 


220  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

your  Miss  Lambert  what  I've  said  if  you  like.  I 
must  ..." 

"Pauline!"  he  shouted,  so  that  those  beyond  looked 
round.  "You've  never  been  jealous  of  Delia  Lambert? 
What  an  ass  I  was  not  to  think  of  that !  But  I  somehow 
never  thought  you  could  be  jealous  of  a  chap  like  me. 
You  seemed  so  above  it  all." 

"Hush!     They'll  hear  you,"  said  Pauline. 

"Let  'em!"  he  said.  "If  you  make  any  fuss  I  shall 
take  you  in  my  arms  and  kiss  you  before  the  whole  lot. 
They  can  see  if  they  like.  I  don 't  care.  Oh !  Pauline — 

you  don't  know  how  a  man  feels — I've  waited  so  long 

My  darling!  My  darling!" 

He  drew  her  almost  roughly  into  the  deeper  shadow 
of  a  narrow  place  between  a  giant  beech  and  the  hedge 
and,  unclasping  the  supple  fingers  which  were  about  the 
tennis  racket,  he  kissed  them  as  he  had  wished  to  do.  At 
first  she  held  herself  away  from  him,  but  soon  the  strength 
of  his  young  passion  so  kindled  hers  that  she  could  only  lie 
silent  on  his  breast  and  let  him  kiss  her  as  he  would. 
Nothing  seemed  real  any  more,  but  his  touch  and  the  feel 
of  his  coat  on  her  cheek  and  his  lips  on  hers. 

"So  this  was  what  you  really  had  to  tell  me,  eh,  Pau- 
line?" he  whispered  at  last. 

She  started  as  if  a  cold  hand  had  been  laid  on  her  heart, 
then  she  felt  the  pressure  of  his  arms  and  was  reassured; 
nothing  could  endanger  their  love  now;  she  would  still 
tell  him  because  she  so  wanted  him  to  go  on  being  so 
splendidly  sure  of  himself  and  because  it  was  certain 
that  she  could  never  be  happy,  married  to  him,  with  a 
secret  such  as  this  between  them  which  might  come  out 
at  any  time.  They  would  share  this  injury  which  she  had 
done  his  career  as  they  were  to  share  everything  else  in 
life. 

Feeling  thus,  she  made  sure  that  TJnwin  would  feel 
the  same,  and  it  was  with  deep  contrition,  but  no  real 
fear,  that  she  answered  finally — 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  221 

"No.  I  was  going  to  say  something  quite  different 
.  .  .  Maurice  ..."  But  here  their  rapture  in  hearing 
her  call  him  by  his  name  for  the  first  time  stopped  all 
further  conversation  for  awhile,  until  she  released  herself 
and  pushed  back  her  heavy  chair.  "Wait,  dear,  I  can't 
talk  when  you  hold  me  so,"  she  said,  with  that  little 
husky  note  in  her  sweet  voice  which  he  had  always  loved. 
Then  as  he  came  towards  her  once  more  she  said  breath- 
lessly, feeling  instinctively  that  she  would  never  have  the 
courage  again:  "Maurice,  it  was  I  who  lost  you  the  post." 

"You!"  he  said,  then  he  tossed  the  ridiculous  idea 
from  him  as  one  may  a  feather.  "I  don't  believe  it!" 

"It  is  true,"  she  said;  and  she  began  to  feel  afraid. 

"How  could  you  possibly  influence  Lord  South  water?" 

He  smiled,  putting  his  arm  about  her  again  and  mur- 
muring in  her  ear:  "Conceited  little  goose  .  .  .  thinks 
she  can  rule  the  world." 

But  Pauline  was  not  going  to  lose  her  chance;  th^ir 
life  together  should  not  be  spoiled  by  the  banal  compli-> 
cation  of  an  untold  secret.  "I  saw  you  outside  the  Dragon 
at  Ryeford  that  morning  Johnson  died.  You  stood  there 
leaning  against  the  doorway  in  your  evening  clothes.  I 
thought  ..."  And  then  it  was  she  who  tlung  out  her 
arms  and  pressed  him  to  her.  "I  thought  you  were 
drunk.  I  told  Aunt  Dickson  so,  Maurice." 

"You  thought  I  was  drunk?  You  believed  me  to  be  a 
drunkard?"  he  said  stupidly,  staring  at  her. 

"Yes."  The  word  fell  heavily  to  Pauline's  own  ear, 
like  a  stone  falling  down  into  depths  hitherto  unguessed. 

"When  you  laughed  and  talked  and  went  out  with 
me,  you  really  believed  I  was  a  drunkard." 

"Not  always,"  faltered  Pauline.  "Only — only  now  and 
then  by  a  sort  of  accident.  It  was  before  I  loved  you. 
Oh,  it  seems  incredible  to  me  now  that  I  ever  could  have 
thought  such  a  thing,  much  less  have  repeated  it !  But 
I  have  suffered  as  well  as  you.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 


222  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

have  suffered."  She  paused,  weeping.  "Can  you  ever 
forgive  me?" 

There  followed  a  silence,  and  then  he  said  in  a  toneless 
voice — 

"Oh,  yes;  I  forgive  you  all  right." 

"But  you  don't  love  me  any  more?"  she  said,  her 
desperate  eyes  searching  his  face,  her  fingers  twining 
round  his  unresponsive  hand.  Then  she  let  his  hand  drop. 
"Maurice!  Maurice!  It  can't  be  that  you  won't  love 
me  any  more?" 

He  looked  away  from  her  at  the  distant  tennis  groups. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  heavily.  "You  were  just 
a  make-up  of  my  own  imagination.  The  girl  I  thought 
you  were  would  have  been  too  loyal  and  straight.  ...  I 
thought  you  were  above  all  other  girls." 

"It's  not  my  fault  you  thought  that,"  cried  Pauline, 
almost  beside  herself  with  this  reaction  from  the  intense 
happiness  of  a  few  minutes  ago.  "I'm  only  like  all  the 
rest,  excepting  in  one  thing.  ...  I  love  you  more  than 
any  one  else  could." 

"And  yet  you  told  this  tale  all  round  "Wendlebury?" 

"No.  No.  I  only  told  it  to  Aunt  Diekson.  She  men- 
tioned it  in  confidence — meaning  only  kindly  by  you — to 
Miss  Argle,  who  no  doubt  repeated  it  to  Mrs.  Delamere. 
I  have  never  heard  any  mention  of  it  in  Wendlebury." 

"Then  you  don't  know  for  certain  that  Mrs.  Delamere 
told  Lord  South  water?" 

There  was  a  pause.  A  last  couple  of  players  still  tossed 
up  the  balls  in  the  evening  twilight.  Forty!  Love! 

"I  do  know,"  said  Pauline.  "I  asked  Lord  South- 
water  myself." 

"You  went  cap  in  hand  for  me,  begging  the  job  after 
he  had  turned  me  down!"  exclaimed  Unwin.  "Well 
.  .  .  that's  the  limit." 

"I  was  so  sorry.  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  wanted  to 
put  things  right,"  said  Pauline  humbly. 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  223 

"Had  he  heard  the  story?" 

"Yes." 

"But  he  is  a  just  man.  Surely  he  did  not  make  up 
his  mind  without  further  inquiries?"  said  Unwin. 

"Xo,  but  ..."  She  paused,  then  held  up  her  head 
and  looked  him  straight  in  the  face.  "I  will  tell  the 
truth.  It  was  the  story  that  first  put  any  douht  into  his 
mind.  So  he  began  to  make  inquiries  in  Wendlebury." 

"What  could  Wendlebury  say  about  me?"  demanded 
Unwin. 

"Oh,  it's  not  what  Wendlebury  can,  but  what  Wendle- 
bury will!"  cried  Pauline.  "You  must  know  that  by 
now.  And  every  one  thinks  you  irresponsible  because 
you  are  full  of  fun  and  never  consider  what  people  will 
say." 

"I  see,"  said  Unwin,  moving  a  step  or  two  towards 
the  tennis  players.  "Almost  too  late  to  play,  isn't  it?" 

Pauline  felt  herself  dismissed  into  a  world  of  outer 
darkness.  Any  passion  of  reproach  would  have  been 
less  hopeless  than  those  few  simple  words.  She  walked 
silently  by  him  while  a  pigeon  wheeled  across  the  sky 
with  golden  light  on  its  wings.  "Love  all!"  the  tennis 
players  called. 

It  was  to  Pauline  as  if  she  heard  the  final  clang  of 
Eden's  gates.  Desperately,  she  caught  Unwin 's  hand  in 
hers  and  pressed  it. 

"Maurice!  I  didn't  mean  it!  I  didn't  mean  it!  I 
would  have  died  sooner  than  lose  you  your  job." 

His  hand  remained  heavily  unresponsive  in  hers.  "All 
right.  Don't  you  worry!  If  Southwater  is  so  easily  put 
off  as  all  that  I  would  rather  not  work  with  him. ' ' 

"Then  this  is  the  end?"  said  Pauline. 

"Oh!"  he  paused,  and  the  voices  of  the  tennis  players 
filled  in  the  silence.  "I  think  I'll  just  ...  a  last 
sett.  .  .  ." 

He  walked  away  from  her  and  she  was  alone.  The 
breeze  had  fallen;  every  leaf  stood  still  above  her  head. 


224  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Love  all!  There  was  something  strange  and  terrible  to 
her  in  that  golden  stillness  with  the  light  voices  of  the 
players  calling  out  the  name  of  love.  She  was  vaguely 
waking,  in  a  mist  of  agony,  to  the  knowledge  that  a 
man  may  forgive  an  injury  to  his  love  but  seldom  to  his 
pride. 

And  Unwin,  struck  deep  in  his  weakest  point,  was  at 
that  moment  conscious  of  nothing  else  save  his  own  pain. 
He  was  like  a  bull  blinded  by  its  own  blood  as  he  crossed 
the  field  and  climbed  over  the  fence  into  the  road  to  avoid 
the  players  at  the  gate.  It  was  an  exit  often  used  by 
him,  and  he  plunged  across  the  road  with  his  head  down, 
looking  neither  right  nor  left. 

Almost  immediately  there  was  a  shout,  a  grinding 
sound  of  brakes  and  clutches,  and  Unwin  lay  on  the  dusty 
ground,  unconscious,  with  two  middle-aged  motorists 
bending  over  him. 

"Only  stunned,  I  think,"  said  the  man,  who  was  no 
other  than  the  father  of  that  youthful  Argle  of  Argle 
Towers  so  concerned  about  his  dress  clothes.  "His  heart 
is  all  right  and  there  seem  to  be  no  bones  broken." 

"But  what  on  earth  are  we  to  do  with  him?"  said 
Mrs.  Argle,  gazing  aimlessly  round  at  the  deserted  road. 
"We  can't  leave  him  here,  you  know." 

Mr.  Argle  agreed,  for  though  one  of  those  keen  motor- 
ists to  whom  pedestrians  on  a  road  are  but  as  slugs  on  a 
cabbage  to  a  gardener,  he  yet  possessed  human  feelings. 

"We  had  better  put  him  in  the  car  and  take  him 
home/'  suggested  Mrs.  Argle. 

"Grand  idea!"  said  Mr.  Argle,  then  his  face  clouded. 
"We  don't  know  where  his  home  is." 

"Look  in  his  pockets!" 

"Good!  Oh,  a  pawn  ticket.  Doesn't  look  like  a  chap 
who  would  be  driven  to  that,  but  you  never  know.  No 
card?  No  letters?  Oh,  here  is  a  cigarette  case  with  an 
inscription.  Unwin!  Why,  bless  mv  soul,  I  ought  to 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  225 

have  recognised  him  at  once.  He's  that  architect  chap 
who  was  to  have  gone  to  Southwater.  Here  .  .  .  you 
lift  his  feet  and  I'll  .  .  ." 

Then  Umvin  opened  his  eyes,  put  a  dazed  hand  across 
his  brow  and  said  faintly — 

"What  .  .  .  what  are  you  doing?" 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  my  dear  chap.  We  knocked  you 
down.  You  popped  over  the  fence  suddenly  and  it  was 
all  done  in  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Argle.  "Can  you  stand?" 

"I — think  so,"  said  Unwin,  in  a  mazed  fashion,  still 
scarcely  knowing  where  he  was. 

"Then  pop  into  the  car  and  we'll  have  you  home  in 
no  time,"  said  Argle. 

"We  are  so  sorry,"  added  Mrs.  Argle  casually,  handing 
him  his  hat. 

The  car  went  on  again,  full  speed  ahead — the  Argles 
being  already  late  for  dinner  with  their  relative,  Miss 
Argle,  whom  they  visited  as  a  family  duty  at  very  rare 
intervals — and  the  cool  rushing  air  soon  revived  Unwin. 
His  youth  and  strength  enabled  him  to  shake  off  the 
outward  effects  of  the  accident  far  more  quickly  than 
seemed  possible  when  he  was  lying  prone  in  the  dust  a 
few  minutes  earlier,  and  he  insisted  on  being  put  down 
at  the  corner  of  the  market  place,  though  his  legs  trembled 
as  he  began  to  walk  on  after  bidding  the  Argles  farewell. 
The  houses  round  seemed  at  first  a  little  unsteady,  as  if 
a  queer,  silent  earthquake  were  taking  place  in  Wendle- 
bury,  but  he  jammed  his  hat  on  his  head  and  forced  him- 
self to  walk  jauntily  across  the  market  square,  giving  suit- 
able greetings  and  replies  to  two  or  three  people  whom  he 
encountered. 

"Yes.  Knocked  down  by  a  car!  Nasty  knock,  but  all 
right  now.  Lovely  night!"  And  so  on,  until  he  gained 
the  safe  guidance  of  the  street  beyond.  His  own  concern, 
instinctively,  was  to  hide  the  wound  Pauline  had  given  him. 
He  would  still  seem  to  have  all  he  wanted;  none  should 


226  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

think  for  a  moment  that  he  was  there,  cap  in  hand, 
asking  anything  of  any  one  in  the  world,  even  of  fate. 

He  was  obliged,  however,  to  stand  still  for  a  moment 
or  two  to  steady  himself,  and  his  glance  fell  on  three 
golden  balls  opposite.  What  were  they  playing  at?  Why 
could  they  not  keep  quiet?  Butter  .  .  .  butter.  .  .  . 
What  had  they  to  do  with  butter  ?  Then  his  groping  mind 
caught  it.  Miss  Amelia!  Poor  old  girl,  he  must  not  for- 
get her.  She  would  be  hanging  out  of  that  back  door  and 
getting  a  cold.  He  laughed  feebly,  still  a  little  dizzy  and 
light-headed,  and  went  into  the  pawnshop. 

He  must  have  been  walking  about  aimlessly  after  that 
for  some  time  with  the  jewelry  box  under  his  arm,  for  it 
was  quite  dark  when  he  stood  outside  Miss  Amelia's  door 
and  knocked  gently.  It  was  opened  at  once,  and  she  peered 
out,  blinking  over  a  candle  which  guttered  in  the  draught. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered.  "Most  unfortunate.  He  has 
been  early  for  once.  The  butter,  I  mean.  If  you  really 
would  forgive  me  .  .  ."  Aloud  she  continued  in  an  arti- 
ficial shaky  falsetto :  ' '  No  muffins  to-day,  thank  you ! ' ' 

From  above  came  a  commanding  voice — 

"Muffins!  At  this  time  of  night !  The  man  must  think 
we're  mad.  Tell  him  so!" 

Poor  Miss  Amelia,  pressing  her  heart  with  her  left  hand 
while  she  took  the  jewelry  box  with  her  right,  endeavoured 
thus  to  convey  her  sense  of  eternal  gratitude  while  she 
echoed  forlornly — 

"Muffins  ...  at  this  time  of  night  .  .  .  you  must  be 
mad!" 

"Shut  that  door  at  once.  There  is  a  draught,"  called 
Miss  Harriet. 

"Good-night,"  whispered  Miss  Amelia,  "and  God  bless 
you!" 

Then  Unwin  was  out  in  the  streets  again,  unable  to  go 
home  though  he  felt  tired,  needing  food,  but  sickened  by 
the  thought  of  it.  He  was  conscious  of  a  loneliness  like 
that  of  a  stray  dog,  and  yet  he  rejected  with  distaste 


THE  TENNIS  CLUB  227 

the  idea  of  visiting  any  friend  in  Wendlebury.  They 
were  all  so  kind,  but  he  wanted  something  different  from 
their  cheerful  talk  and  brightly  lighted  rooms.  He 
wanted  .  .  . 

Quite  suddenly  he  realised  that  Delia  would  do. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

UNWIN  sat  in  the  large  chair  by  the  empty  fire-grate 
smoking  a  cigarette.  He  had  told  Delia  about  the 
motor  accident,  but  she  knew  quite  well  that  there  was 
something  more  behind  this  which  he  had  not  told  her, 
and  which  accounted  for  the  beaten  look  on  his  face  as 
he  sat  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  mantelpiece. 

She  answered  lightly,  however,  and  after  a  while  went 
out  of  the  room,  remaining  away  some  minutes.  There 
was  a  faint  chink  of  crockery  in  the  kitchen,  the  sound  of 
a  popping  cork;  but  it  all  came  vaguely  to  Unwin,  like 
things  heard  in  a  miserable  dream.  He  rose  from  his 
seat  .  .  .  time  to  go  on  again.  His  urging  restlessness 
would  not  let  him  remain  here  any  longer. 

Delia  heard  his  footsteps  and  called  out  to  him  cas- 
ually— 

"Here!  Will  you  carry  my  supper-tray  in  before  you 
go?  Miss  Walker  is  out  and  it  is  rather  heavy." 

He  frowned  impatiently  and  went  to  the  kitchen.  Of 
course  he  must  help  her  before  he  went.  There  was  some- 
thing so  deeply  engrained  in  him,  obliging  him  to  help 
all  women,  that  it  was  instinctive  and  held  even  in  this 
dark  hour.  But  he  muttered  under  his  breath:  "Damn 
the  supper!" 

Delia  gave  him  the  tray  and  he  carried  it  back  into 
the  room.  It  contained  fresh  butter,  crusty  bread  and 
sardines  in  tomato.  He  began  to  feel  a  slight  desire  for 
food. 

"Well,  I  must  go  home  now,"  he  said  dully. 

228 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  229 

"All  right.  Have  a  drink  first,  though.  You  must 
be  thirsty." 

And  he  realised  all  at  once  that  his  tongue  and  throat 
were  very  dry. 

"I  was  going  to  give  myself  a  treat,"  she  continued 
with  a  little  laugh.  "Strawberry  punch.  Miss  Walker 
gave  me  a  few  late  strawberries.  You  know  how  it  is 
made." 

She  picked  them  as  she  spoke,  putting  them  into  a  jug 
where  she  crushed  them  up  with  a  spoonful  of  powdered 
sugar,  speaking  lightly  all  the  time,  as  much  to  herself  as 
to  him,  and  he  found  it  soothing  to  watch  her.  "Now  the 
liquid."  She  poured  from  another  jug  which  was  on 
the  tray.  "Now  a  dash  of  soda-water.  If  only  I  had 
some  ice  ...  the  strawberries  ought  to  have  stood  an 
hour  or  two  ...  it  won't  be  so  bad.  ..."  She  poured 
a  glassful  carefully,  leaving  the  strawberries  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  jug.  ' '  Taste  it ! " 

He  took  the  glass  eagerly,  realising  at  last  a  raging 
thirst,  and  the  cool,  fruit-flavoured  liquid  slipped  down 
his  hot  throat  with  a  most  delicious  freshness.  It  was  all 
gone  before  he  drew  breath. 

"I  say,  I  wanted  that  drink,"  he  said,  putting  down 
the  glass.  "What  is  there  in  it?  I  never  tasted  anything 
so  good." 

"Oh,  only  strawberries  and  soda-water  and  a  half- 
pint  bottle  of  champagne  I  had  left  over  from  my  party. 
Don't  you  remember?  The  one  I  had  to  celebrate  my 
legacy?" 

She  was  now  cutting  bread  and  spreading  butter  as 
she  spoke,  seeming  to  pay  no  attention  to  Unwin,  who 
sat  down  again  by  the  mantelpiece. 

"Good  butter  you  get  in  Wendlebury  .  .  .  whatever 
else  .  .  .  and  real  home-made  bread.  I'm  going  to  have 
a  sardine  sandwich,  will  you?"  She  held  out  the  plate. 
"Strawberry  punch  is  rather  indigestible  without  eating. 
Help  yourself." 


230  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Unwin  took  a  sandwich  and  began  to  eat  unwillingly; 
it  tasted  good.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  an- 
other from  the  plate  which  Delia  had  left  on  the  corner 
of  the  table  near  his  seat.  She  poured  more  strawberry 
punch  for  him,  and  he  did  not  notice  that  she  only  drank 
plain  soda-water  herself.  He  was  still  unhappy,  but  the 
world  seemed  a  less  drearily,  uncomfortable  place.  He 
was  very  abstemious  and  the  little  bottle  of  champagne 
which  had  truly  seemed  nothing  to  Delia,  accustomed  to 
men  of  different  habits,  was  sufficient,  in  his  state  of  mind 
and  on  an  empty  stomach,  to  make  him  see  facts  with  a 
sort  of  emotional  unreality.  He  was  not  in  the  very  least 
intoxicated — he»was  not  even  excited — but  the  wine  had 
loosened  his  tongue,  and  he  undoubtedly  thought  and 
felt  and  spoke  differently  from  what  he  would  have  done 
had  he  taken  cold  water.  The  fact  that  Delia  never 
thought  this  possible  after  a  couple  of  tumblers  of  cham- 
pagne and  soda-water  mixed  with  strawberry  juice,  gave 
his  words  all  the  weight  of  sober  judgment. 

"Have  one  of  my  cigarettes;  they  are  better  than, 
yours,"  said  Delia,  smiling.  "Beggars  always  smoke 
good  tobacco.  You  would  be  ashamed  to  see  the  state 
of  my  stockings." 

He  looked  idly  at  the  slim  feet  where  a  white  patch 
undoubtedly  could  be  seen  above  each  shoe-heel,  and  in- 
haled the  smoke  of  the  excellent  cigarette. 

"You're  a  good  pal,  Delia!" 

"That's  right,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  devoid  of 
any  question. 

So  he  felt  impelled  to  continue :  "I  was  feeling  beastly 
when  I  came  in  here." 

' '  Glad  you  came,  then  ...  if  you  feel  any  better  now, ' ' 
she  answered. 

"I  do."    He  paused.     "I'd  had  a  nasty  knock." 

"It  is  horrid  .  .  .  saying  good-bye.  I  suppose  the 
'fare-thee-well-and-if-for-eyer'  note  was  very  strong  at  the 
tennis  club  this  evening  ? ' ' 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  231 

He  looked  down,  kicking  the  fender. 

"It  was  not  that.  I'm  not  the  sort  to  make  a  howl 
about  turning  out  into  the  world,  I  hope.  I'm  rather 
glad  to  have  the  chance,  in  fact,  for  the  one  drawback 
to  Southwater's  post  was  that  I  should  be  in  a  very  nar- 
row sphere." 

"All  work  worth  doing  has  to  be  done  in  a  narrow 
sphere '  if  it  goes  on  long  enough.  Concentration  auto- 
matically makes  the  sphere  narrow,"  said  Delia,  still  im- 
personal. 

"Xo;  it  was  not  that,"  said  Unwin,  pursuing  his  own 
train  of  thought  undistracted  by  her  remark.  "Do  you 
think  it  possible  for  a  person  to  care  for  another  person 
and  then  go  round  talking  injurious  scandal  about  that 
person?" 

Delia  stared  at  him  in  genuine  surprise. 

"So  you're  letting  that  worry  you!  "Wendlebury  gos- 
sip!" 

Then  Unwin  saw  that  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of 
telling  Delia  what  he  never  meant  to  tell  any  living  soul, 
and  he  gathered  his  discretion  together  with  both  hands 
in  a  sort  of  panic. 

"Rather  idiotic,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  flushing  with  a 
sense  of  danger  only  just  escaped. 

"I  dare  say  the  accident  with  the  car  has  shaken  you 
up  more  than  you  think,"  said  Delia. 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  it,  no  doubt,"  he  said,  thankfully  ac- 
cepting her  explanation,  for  he  was  comfortable  now  and 
did  not  want  to  leave  the  chair  and  Delia's  companion- 
ship, which  seemed  to  hedge  him  round  with  such  a  pleas- 
ant sense  of  repose. 

"You'll  like  the  sea- voyage,"  said  Delia,  after  they  had 
remained  smoking  quietly  for  some  minutes. 

"Yes.     I  wish  you  were  coming  too!" 

Then — for  some  quite  unexplicable  reason — Unwin 's 
glance,  which  had  been  careless,  became  focussed  on 


232  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Delia's  face.  It  remained  there  until  she  felt  the  colour 
rising  to  her  forehead. 

"Oh!  I've  had  plenty  of  sea-voyages,"  she  said  at 
last,  thrusting  aside,  as  it  were,  the  evidence  of  those 
suddenly  flaming  cheeks. 

Unwin  sat  looking  at  her  until  the  red  faded  from  those 
high  cheek-bones,  but  it  was  evident  he  had  ceased  to  see 
her;  he  was  entirely  engrossed  by  some  discovery  within 
himself. 

"I  say,  Delia,"  he  broke  out,  ending  the  silence;  "I 
didn't  know  I  meant  it,  but  I  do.  I  wish  you  were  com- 
ing with  me!" 

She  looked  straight  at  him,  flushing  again,  but  speaking 
quite  clearly. 

"What  as?  Governess?  But  I'm  afraid  I  am  hardly 
old  enough  and  you  are  a  little  too  old." 

Now  it  is  a  fact  that  Unwin  had  simply  thought  of  her 
as  the  most  delightful  comrade  in  the  world,  and  no  de- 
tails of  their  wandering  out  from  Wendlebury  had  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  mind,  these  being  blurred  in  a 
sort  of  pleasant  mist  which  caused  the  desirable  thing  to 
seem  possible.  But  her  question  made  him  reply,  with  a 
sense  of  diving  suddenly  off  a  high  pier  into  deep  water — 

"There's  only  one  way  a  man  can  take  a  woman,  is 
there,  if  he  has  any  decency  about  him?" 

"You  mean  as  nurse?"  parried  Delia,  a  little  breath- 
lessly all  the  same.  "But  that  means  your  wearing  a 
splint  or  something  of  that  sort  all  the  time." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Unwin.  "You  are 
the  best  pal  I  have  in  the  world.  I  won't  leave  you  be* 
hind  if  you  care  to  come?" 

Delia  shook  her  head. 

"Dear  old  boy,  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  work." 

Her  opposition  stiffened  his  new-made  resolve,  and  he 
remembered  how  the  red  flush  grew  and  faded  under  her 
eyes.  If  she  cared  for  him,  she  could  have  him.  She  was 
the  best  sort  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he  would  like  to  have 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  233 

her  with  him  in  a  strange  country.  As  for  love  .  .  . 
Well,  he  had  had  enough  of  love  to  last  him  his  lifetime. 

"Delia,"  he  said,  reaching  forward  and  taking  her 
hand,  "will  you  come  with  me  as  my  wife?" 

She  shook  her  head,  leaving  her  hand  in  his. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  don't  love  me,  Maurice,  and  I 
don't  love  you;  not  in  that  way.  I — I  believe  I'm  a  bit 
in  love  with  you  now.  You  are  so  young  and  full  of  life 
and  go.  I  don't  say  I  shouldn't  enjoy  being  made  love 
to  by  you.  You  see,  I'm  not  a  child.  ...  I'm  a  woman 
who  has  loved.  So  I  don't  deceive  myself;  and  I  won't' 
deceive  you — for — for  a  mess  of  pottage." 

"You  are  not  doing  so,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  in  love 
with  you  either."  But  even  as  he  said  it,  a  little  gust  of 
passion  swept  over  him  and  he  pressed  the  hand  he  held. 
"Only  ...  I  do  want  you  to  go  with  me,  Delia." 

At  the  real  feeling  in  his  tone,  evanescent  though  it  was, 
Delia's  expression  changed.  She  gazed  questioningly  into 
his  face. 

"I  don't  understand  you.  I  thought "  she  paused. 

"You  may  resent  it  or  not  as  you  like;  I  thought  you 
were  in  love  with  Pauline  Westcott?" 

"Too  much  of  a  gossip  for  my  taste,  thank  you." 

"Then  you  blame  her!"  exclaimed  Delia:  but  went  on 
immediately :  "  No ;  you  're  wrong  then.  She  would  never 
go  round  the  place  scandal-mongering.  The  thing's  in- 
credible ! ' ' 

"It's  true." 

"Who  told  you?    Some  old  maid  or  other  ..." 

"She  did." 

"She  did,  herself?" 

"Yes,"  said  Unwin.  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  over 
him.  He  could  not  think  what  had  made  him  tell  Delia. 
"She  meant  no  harm,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "I  am  quite 
sure  she  meant  no  harm." 

Delia  looked  at  him.     If  he  still  really  loved  Pauline, 


234  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

he  could  not  have  betrayed  her  in  such  a  way.  That 
made  a  great  difference. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  said  slowly. 

"Come,"  he  answered.  "We'll  have  great  fun  to- 
gether, Delia." 

She  smiled  at  him,  her  odd  smile  which  was  yet  charm- 
ing. 

"Follow  the  fun?  Eh,  Maurice?"  she  said.  "But 
there  must  be  times  in  between — and — and  at  the  end  of 
the  fun :  when  I  'm  old  and  don 't  care  for  fun  any  longer. 
Have  you  thought  of  those?" 

"I  shall  be  old  too,"  he  said.  "We'll  have  gout  to- 
gether— but  not  in  Wendlebury." 

"That's  just  it!"  She  pounced  upon  the  idea  brought 
forth  in  those  words.  "You  feel  now  that  you  want  to 
get  away  from  Wendlebury  and  all  connected  with  it  for 
ever. ' ' 

"Well — and  if  I  do?"  For  even  as  she  spoke  he  was 
conscious  of  a  desire  to  put  an  irrevocable  barrier  between 
himself  and  Pauline.  The  side  of  his  nature  which  made 
him  so  resent  being  miserable  now  spurred  him  on  to  end 
the  suspense  and  worry  of  the  past  weeks  once  and  for  all. 
That  weaker  part  of  him  urged  insistently :  ' '  Pauline  has 
made  you  unhappy.  Let  there  be  no  more  Pauline ! ' ' 

"How  can  we  be  sure  that  you  will  continue  to  feel 
about  things  as  you  do  now?"  continued  Delia,  arguing 
with  herself  as  well  as  with  him.  Then  she  flung  out  at 
him,  almost  despite  her  own  will:  "Oh,  it  won't  do!  It 
won't  do!" 

He  rose. 

"All  right.  If  you  don't  want  me,  leave  me.  I  shall 
get  on  somehow." 

She  laughed  unexpectedly. 

"You  tiresome  boy!  That's  just  the  worst  of  it.  I  do 
want  you!" 

He  laughed  too.  There  was  something  refreshing  to  his 
jaded  spirit  in  her  light  change  of  mood. 


235 

"Take  me  then,  old  girl,"  he  said.  "We'll  make  a  glor- 
ious trip  of  it,  and  if  you  can't  stick  the  climate  you  shall 
come  home.  Let's  be  thankful  we  can  be  jolly.  I  believe 
lots  of  people  can't." 

She  stood  drumming  with  her  fingers  upon  the  table, 
glancing  aside  at  Unwin  out  of  her  long-shaped  eyes  with 
a  gleam  of  malicious  amusement.  So  they  stood — on  either 
side  of  the  table — and  arranged  for  an  elopement.  And 
yet  had  he  wooed  her  after  the  same  fashion  as  he  had 
wooed  Pauline  that  afternoon  between  the  beech-trees,  she 
would  have  refused  him.  She  knew  well  the  value  of  a 
great  love  and  was  too  generous  to  have  offered  a  small 
price  in  return  for  that  treasure. 

But  she  was  greatly  tempted  to  do  as  he  asked  her. 
The  quiet  time  at  Wendlebury  had  restored  her  spent 
forces  and  she  was  again  ready  for  the  road — the  true 
wanderer.  And  to  have  Unwin  for  her  travelling  com- 
rade seemed  a  very  delightful  prospect.  They  two  could 
have  such  a  jolly  time  of  it,  while  it  lasted.  .  .  . 

•"While  it  lasted. 

She  drummed  on  the  table  with  her  fingers. 

"Come  along,  Delia,"  he  said,  smiling. 

She  looked  at  him  again.  He  had  never  seemed  so  hand- 
some to  her  thinking  as  now  when  he  stood  with  his 
young,  lithe  figure  leaning  on  the  table-edge.  His  light- 
brown  hair  was  a  little  disordered  and  his  eyes  shone  with 
a  certain  reckless  gaiety  which  she  found  irresistible.  So 
be  it ;  she  would  come  out  and  play  and  chance  the  future 
whipping ! 

"Very  well,  Maurice,"  she  said. 

Then  he  walked  round  the  table  and  put  his  arm  lightly 
about  her  waist. 

' '  Good  girl !  We  '11  have  lots  of  fun  together.  Can  you 
be  ready  by  Wednesday?" 

"At  the  Registrar's?    It  will  have  to  be  done  here." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  the  wedding.  I  sail  on  Wednesday. 
I — I  forgot  the  wedding." 


236  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

There  was  a  second's  pause,  then  they  both  laughed  to- 
gether. Unwin  held  her  closer. 

"By  Jove,  you  are  a  brick,  Delia!  Any  other  girl  ..." 
He  paused  and  kissed  her.  "We  must  be  married  on  Mon- 
day, of  course." 

"What  will  Wendlebury  say?" 

''Nothing  that  Wendlebury  can  say  will  matter  to  either 
of  us  any  more, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  Hey,  for  the  open  road ! 
I'm  breathing  deeper  already,  Delia." 

She  pondered  again,  though  clasped  in  his  arm.  Per- 
haps it  was  all  for  the  best ;  perhaps  he  did  need  the  open 
road  to  bring  out  all  he  was  capable  of  becoming.  She 
gave  a  deep  sigh  and  cast  all  care  to  the  winds. 

"All  right,  then,"  she  said.  " The  open  road  be  it.  But 
— but — I'll  come  with  you  as  a  pal,  you  know,  Maurice. 
I  was  only  joking  about  the  wedding." 

"Were  you?"  said  Unwin.  "Then  I  was  not.  I 
wouldn't  let  any  woman  ruin  her  reputation  for  my  pleas- 
ure, much  less  one  like  you,  Delia.  You  understand 
that?" 

"I  do,"  said  Delia.  "That's  why  ..."  Then  she 
broke  off.  "Think;  before  it  is  too  late!  Take  a  night 
to  think  it  over!" 

"I  won't  take  a  minute  to  think  it  over.  Do  you  want 
to  come  with  me  or  not?" 

"You  know  I  do,"  she  answered.     "But " 

He  stood  back,  laughing  at  her. 

"But!  We're  off  to  a  life  where  there  are  no  buts, 
Delia." 

She  saw  him,  erect,  virile,  and  gave  in  at  last  to  a  jolly 
sense  of  joining  those  who  play  as  they  go  along  the  road 
of  life,  catching  butterflies,  lingering,  eating  to  the  full 
at  a  hedge  of  blackberries.  It  would  be  such  fun  to  go  off 
on  the  wander  again  with  a  comrade  like  Unwin. 

Then  they  heard  Miss  Walker's  key  rattling  in  the  door 
and  Delia  said  quickly — 

"You  must  be  off  now.    Poor  Miss  Walker,  she  has  been 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  237 

so  good  to  me :  I  won 't  worry  her  just  at  the  last.  You 
must  come  to-morrow  morning  and  we  will  arrange  every- 
thing." 

"I'm  just  going,  Miss  Walker,"  said  Unwin,  taking 
up  his  hat. 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Walker,  but  her  tone  implied,  "Not 
before  time."  Then  she  noticed  the  look  of  excitement 
and  fatigue  on  his  face  and  her  old  kindness  for  him 
came  back.  "It's  not  that  I  want  to  turn  you  out,  Mr. 
Unwin.  But  it  is  a  little  late  .  .  .  two  ladies  living 
alone  ..." 

"Of  course.  Good-night!  Good-night!"  and  Unwin 
found  himself  in  the  long,  dark  street  near  the  Bowling 
Green  Inn,  where  a  few  yellow  gas-lamps  twinkled  be- 
neath a  moonlit  sky. 

The  air  blew  cool  from  the  green  fields  round  Wendle- 
bury  and  his  head  cleared  as  he  walked  along.  In  crossing 
the  market  place  he  again  saw  the  three  balls  of  the  pawn- 
broker catching  the  moonlight.  He  stood  quite  still  with 
his  hand  to  his  forehead.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he 
had  asked  a  woman  to  marry  him  who  was  not  Pauline, 
and  thus  altered  the  whole  course  of  his  life  since  seeing 
those  golden  balls  last?  The  thing  began  to  seem  incred- 
ible, though  he  did  not  regret  it. 

He  was  not  the  first  man  by  any  means  who  has  come 
out  from  a  heated  room  into  a  cool  street,  to  wonder  what 
miracle  can  have  happened  to  him  in  there,  to  make  him 
take  a  course  of  action  affecting  his  whole  life  which  he 
had  never  contemplated.  Nor  will  he  be  the  last.  But 
for  the  individual  man  such  is  always  an  uniquely  strange 
moment.  The  stays  and  anchors  seem  all  to  be  rooted  up. 
He  feels  himself — just  for  that  breathing  space — an  atom 
rushed  along  by  the  current. 

But  the  thing  is  done,  and  if  he  be  a  man  such  as  Unwin, 
he  immediately  and  instinctively  begins  to  make  the  best 
of  it.  He  is  in  honour  bound  to  a  woman,  and  at  the 
decent  core  of  him  stirs  a  desire  to  think  that  he  has 


238  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

pursued,  captured  and  gained  his  desire.  His  chivalry 
casts  a  cloak  over  the  woman  he  is  going  to  make  his  wife. 
So  Unwin,  muttering  rather  dizzily  to  himself:  "She's 
a  good  sort  ...  a  real,  good  sort,"  went  on  again  to  his 
lodgings.  Once  there,  he  sat  down  in  his  armchair  and 
immediately  fell  asleep.  Hour  after  hour  passed  and  he 
still  remained  in  the  dead  sleep  of  mental  and  physical 
exhaustion.  At  last  dawn  came,  and  he  awoke  to  the  day, 
the  promised  husband  of  Delia  Lambert. 

Delia  spoke  to  Miss  Walker,  helped  to  remove  the  supper 
tray  and  went  upstairs  to  her  bedroom.  But  she  had  no 
inclination  for  sleep.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  star- 
ing into  the  semi-darkness  made  by  the  candle — for  Miss 
Walker  had  no  gas  upstairs — and  she  saw  during  those 
hours  the  pageant  of  her  own  life  go  past.  Memory  can- 
not hold  sensation,  so  it  was  only  the  silent  dumb-show 
of  it  all  that  she  re-witnessed  thus  .  .  .  love  .  .  .  heart- 
breaking disillusion  .  .  .  fun  .  .  .  variety  .  .  .  death. 
.  .  .  She  saw  them  slipping  past  one  after  the  other  be- 
tween her  and  the  wall-paper. 

Then  they  ceased;  so  she  saw  the  wall-paper  beyond 
with  its  green  roses,  and  the  rest  of  the  little  dingy  room. 
But  it  had  a  charm  for  her,  because  she  had  come  here 
beaten — for  the  first  time — and  had  found  a  haven  of  ref- 
uge where  she  could  be  quiet  until  she  gained  strength 
to  go  on  with  life  again. 

She  rose,  finding  herself  stiff  with  the  long  sitting  in 
one  position,  and  went  to  the  window  where  she  drew  up 
the  blind.  So  she  also  saw  the  dawn,  and  thought  of  Un- 
win. The  smell  of  ripe  corn  and  deep  pastures  and 
gardens  full  of  roses  and  lavender  and  southern- 
wood made  the  morning  air  fragrant  as  it  blew  upon 
her  face  through  the  open  window.  She,  too,  had  under- 
gone a  Wendlebury  change  into  something  sweeter  than 
she  was  before  she  came.  All  she  might  have  been,  but  for 
the  fiery  tongues  of  scandal  driving  her  out  into  the  wil- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  239 

derness  in  early  girlhood,  showed  in  her  face  as  she  stood 
there  watching  the  sun  rise  over  the  clustered  roofs  of  the 
little  town. 

She  thought  of  Unwin  sleeping  and  her  look  grew  won- 
derfully tender.  Poor  boy !  Poor  boy !  They  would  have 
such  a  jolly  time  together.  Then  her  brow  contracted  and 
her  glance  turned  inward  as  she  remembered  that  pageant 
of  the  night.  What  had  she  left  to  give  him  in  return 
for  his  youth  and  kindness?  Faithfulness  .  .  .  affection 
.  .  .  that  was  all  he  wanted ;  that  was  all  he  offered  her. 

But  could  she  count  on  herself  even  for  that,  in  the 
long  run  ?  She  might  get  dead  sick  of  it  all  and  be  driven 
to  take  her  own  way  again,  because  nothing  had  ever  held 
her  fast  but  love.  She  had  started  to  be  a  vagabond  too 
soon. 

The  tall  spire  of  the  church  was  now  catching  the  early 
sunlight.  The  town  lay  silent  below.  A  pigeon  wheeled 
against  the  morning  sky. 

Delia  thought  of  the  grave  beneath  the  shadow  of  that 
spire,  and  her  thoughts  of  the  past  night  became  less  ach- 
ingly  vivid  but  more  real.  They  grew  simple,  fragrant 
of  the  good  things  of  life,  like  the  wind  blowing  in  through 
the  Avindow. 

She  knew  that  though  she  had  already  loved  twice,  her 
last  love  was  indeed  her  last.  Some  fire  of  womanhood 
had  died  within  her  when  Dick  Delamere  went,  and  no 
power  on  earth  could  bring  it  back.  She  had  only  so  little 
to  offer  in  return  for  Unwin 's  faithfulness  of  a  lifetime, 
and  she  knew  that  he  was  of  the  sort  who  keeps  faith 
with  his  wife,  whatever  the  temptation.  But  how  would 
it  be  when  he  fell  in  love  again,  as  he  inevitably  would 
do,  and  she  saw  him  struggling  between  his  love  and  his 
duty  to  herself? 

Well,  the  fun  would  be  worth  the  price.  She  would 
follow  the  fun. 

But  even  as  she  quoted  Unwin 's  words,  the  thought  of 


240  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

his  gaiety  and  kindness  made  her  waver  again.  It  was  not 
fair  to  take  all  that,  and  give  so  little  in  return. 

Whatever  happened,  she  had  always  played  fair  before. 
.  .  .  She  looked  out  again,  hearing  faint  sounds  on  the 
road.  The*  carts  were  coming  in  laden  with  butter  and 
€ggs  and  flowers  for  Market  Day.  The  dearness  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  little  town  seemed  to  be  held  up  before  her, 
all  daily  fresh,  like  a  bunch  of  country  flowers. 

A  few  tears  forced  themselves  through  her  eyelids  and 
ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  could  not  give  up  the  sudden 
vista  of  recovered  youth  and  adventure  that  had  opened 
out  before  her.  It  was  too  hard.  No  one  had  any  right 
to  expect  it. 

But  she  knew  now  in  her  heart  that  she  expected  it 
of  herself  and  must  do  it. 

The  cart  lumbered  past,  piled  high  with  its  sweet  load, 
and  the  rosy-faced  countryman  whistled  as  he  went.  He 
sounded  so  free  of  care. 

It  seemed  odd  to  Delia  that  any  one  could  be  so  care- 
free that  morning. 

Then  she  glanced  at  the  clock:  so  late  already?  And 
began  to  empty  her  untidy  drawers  into  her  box. 

The  early  morning  light  shone  also  on  either  side  of 
the  bedroom  blind  which  screened  the  connubial  felicity  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chubb.  It  illuminated  first  Mr.  Chubb 's 
nose  and  then  Mrs.  Chubb 's  elbow,  and  finally  twinkled 
upon  the  closed  eyelids  of  the  recumbent  cabman. 

' '  Gar-r-rh ! ' '  said  Mr.  Chubb,  waking  with  reluctance. 
Then  he  sat  up  and  demanded  angrily:  "What  did  you 
do  that  for?" 

Mrs.  Chubb  was  alert  on  the  instant,  leaning  on  that 
red  elbow. 

"I  didn't  do  nothing,  Chubb." 

"You  woke  me  up.  If  you  hadn't  woke  me  up  I 
shouldn't  ha'  woke  up.  I  don't  wake  meself  up,  do  I? 
Not  at  this  time." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  241 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "It's  somebody  knocking. 
That's  what  you  heard." 

"Silly  woman!  Who's  to  knock  at  such  an'  a  time? 

I  telled  you  it  was "  Then  he  broke  off  and  his  \face 

slowly  changed.  "Somebody  is  knocking  now.  But  they 
didn't  knock  afore,  else  I  should  have  heard  'em." 

"Who  can  it  be?"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "Oh,  I  do  hope 
the  house  next  door  isn't  afire.  They're  always  that  care- 
less ..." 

"Get  up  and  see,"  commanded  Chubb. 

"Go  yourself,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chubb — yet  had  an  angel 
told  her  six  months  ago  that  she  could  so  answer  back  her 
lord  she  would  have  pronounced  the  thing  to  be  impos- 
sible. 

' '  What ! ' '  said  Chubb,  and  he  remained  a  moment  silent, 
the  mental  blow  being  so  great.  "Very  well,"  he  said, 
getting  out  of  bed.  ' '  Very  well — I  '11  go ! " 

But  Chubb 's  "very  well,"  taken  with  his  ready  acqui- 
escence, seemed  so  bodeful  to  Mrs.  Chubb  that  she  jumped 
out  of  bed  the  other  side  and  quavered  forth  hastily:  "I 
— I'm  going,  Chubb,  of  course.  It  was  only  my  joke." 

"Joke!"  said  Chubb.  "You  joking!  You'll  be  setting 
up  as  a  match  for  Unwin  yet — and  a  bonny  pass  it'll  lead 
you  to,  my  woman.  As  it  has  him.  Going  out  to  lions 
and  tigers!" 

"I  won't  go  out  to  lions  and  tigers!"  muttered  Mrs, 
Chubb  tearfully,  putting  on  garments.  ' '  Though  no  doubt 
you'd  be  pleased  to  know  me  all  safely  gobbled  up  so 
that  you  and  her " 

"Bang!  Bang!"  went  the  impatient  knuckles  on  the 
outer  door. 

"Coming!"  shouted  Mrs.  Chubb. 

And  the  next  minute  she  opened  the  house  door  to  con- 
front Delia  on  the  door-step. 

"You!"  she  gasped,  as  if  Delia  were  a  thought  mate- 
rialised before  her,  and  nothing  out  of  the  comfortable, 
tangible  world.  "You!" 


242  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"I  don't  wonder  you  are  surprised,"  said  Delia.  "But 
I  want  Mr.  Chubb  as  a  great  favour  to  get  up  and  bring 
his  cab  round  at  once.  I  shall  just  have  nice  time  to 
catch  the  first  train  up  to  town,  where  I  am  obliged  to 
go  quite  unexpectedly." 

"You're  going  to  London?"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  peering 
into  Delia's  face,  which  looked  very  lined  and  haggard 
in  the  morning  light. 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  coming  back  again  to  Wendlebury  ? " 

Delia  hesitated,  then  she  said  with  decision:    "No." 

"Not  never?" 

"No." 

Mrs.  Chubb  turned  round  from  the  door  and  shouted 
up  the  stairs :  ' '  Come  down !  Get  the  cab  out.  Miss  Lam- 
bert wants  to  go  to  London  for  ever." 

There  was  a  thud  that  shook  the  house  as  Chubb  jumped 
out  of  bed. 

"The  early  train?  All  right.  Plenty  of  time,"  he 
shouted  back. 

"Your  husband  is  always  so  obliging,"  said  Delia, 
smiling  kindly  at  Mrs.  Chubb,  though  she  looked  ab- 
stracted and  anxious.  ' '  I  knew  he  would  not  mind.  Good- 
bye!" 

Mrs.  Chubb  opened  her  mouth,  shut  it,  opened  it  again, 
and  said:  "Good-bye.  I — I  hope  you'll  enjoy  London!" 

Then  she  ran  upstairs,  and  was  so  eager  to  help  her 
husband  in  his  toilette  that  he  bellowed  at  last  with  ex- 
cusable anger — 

"Blast  it!  Can't  you  leave  a  man  to  button  his  own 
braces?"  and  so  drove  her  from  the  room. 

But  she  hummed  a  tune  in  the  kitchen  as  she  boiled 
the  kettle  and  cut  the  bread  and  butter,  and  the  burden 
of  her  song  was  this — 

' '  Folks-that-lives-in-London-town 
' '  Can  't-nypnotize-no-more. ' ' 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  243 

She  spread  her  butter  to  that  rhythm,  and  her  face 
shone  so  pleasantly  joyful  over  the  clean  table  that  even 
Chubb  noticed  it. 

' '  Come,  owd  lass ! "  he  said.  ' '  Give  us  a  kiss.  There's  a 
many  worse." 

Mrs.  Chubb  kissed  him  with  butter  on  her  lips,  for  she 
had  been  tasting,  but  with  tears  of  joy  in  her  eyes.  Her 
Chubby  would  soon  be  all  her  own  again.  Already  the 
spell  had  lifted. 

If  Chubb  could  have  seen  into  her  mind  as  he  swallowed 
his  tea,  he  would  have  thought  her  mad;  and,  indeed,  the 
fancies  of  a  jealous  woman  are  no  less  extravagant  and 
unfounded  than  the  delusions  of  madness. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PAEEWELL ! 

UNWIN  stood  before  the  door  of  Delia's  lodgings  and 
stared  at  Miss  Walker,  who  blinked  nervously  at  him 
from  the  shadow  of  the  little  passage. 

' '  Gone ! "  he  said.    ' '  That  is  impossible ! ' ' 

"You  may  come  in  and  see  for  yourself,"  retorted  Miss 
Walker.  "I'm  as  surprised  as  you  are.  She  went  out 
early  this  morning  and  when  she  came  back  she  paid  me 
up,  and  there  was  Chubb 's  cab  at  the  door.  You  could 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather ! ' ' 

"But  she  must  have  left  some  address?" 

Miss  Walker  shook  her  head. 

"You  can't  call  London  an  address.  She  only  said  she 
was  going  to  London." 

"But  did  you  not  ask  her  for  one  in  case  of  letters 
coming?"  demanded  Unwin. 

"I  did.  And  she  said  she  never  knew  where  she  might 
be."  Miss  Walker  blinked  still  more,  but  with  emotion 
this  time,  and  a  tear  ran  down  her  face.  "I  feel  it,  Mr. 
Unwin.  I  do,  indeed.  Her  and  me  have  been  friends, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking;  and  now  for  her  to  go  off  like 
this  into  the  wide  world  as  you  may  say,  and  no  hopes  of 
seeing  her  again." 

"She  may  return,"  said  Unwin. 

"No.  I  said,  'When  shall  we  see  you  again?'  and  she 
said,  'I  am  not  coming  back  to  Wendlebury,  Miss  Walker. 
This  is  good-bye!'  Then  she  kissed  me,  but  never  a  tear 
she  shed.  Her  eyes  were  as  dry  and  bright  as  anything. 
Still,  I  do  think  she  felt  it  too,  Mr.  Unwin/' 

244 


FAREWELL !  245 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  muttered  Unwin,  looking  down  at 
the  pavement. 

"Nor  I  couldn't,"  said  Miss  "Walker,  voluble  in  her 
agitation.  "But  there  it  is!  I  suppose  with  the  fortune- 
telling  and  all  that,  she  is  one  of  the  wandering  sort — 
blowing  where  she  listeth,  if  you'll  forgive  me  quoting 
Scripture,  not  meaning  any  irreverence.  And  no  doubt 
she  suddenly  got  the  fit  on  her.  She  had  to  go." 

"Perhaps  that  was  it,"  said  Unwin,  after  a  pause. 

"Never  mind!"  said  Miss  Walker.  "But  you  are  off 
to  foreign  parts  yourself,  Mr.  Unwin,  so  you  and  Miss 
Lambert  Avouldn  't  have  seen  much  more  of  each  other  any- 
way."  Then  she  glanced  towards  the  untidy  sitting-room 
and  added  briskly:  "Well!  I  must  just  get  Mrs.  Chubb  to 
come  round  and  clean  me  up  while  I  am  out  working  to- 
day. Somebody  else  may  be  coming  to  look  at  the  lodg- 
ings. I  must  stand  a  bucket  or  two  of  water  about  to 
take  off  the  smell  of  her  cigarettes." 

Thus  was  Delia  set  outside  the  life  of  the  little  place, 
definitely,  as  if  a  deed  of  banishment  had  been  read  over 
her.  As  Unwin  turned  from  the  door  after  making  his 
farewell,  he  saw  the  narrow,  pellucid,  chattering  stream  of 
existence,  so  like  the  beck  behind  Wendlebury  market 
place,  already  flowing  over  the  spot  where  Delia  had  been. 

At  first  he  was  only  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  blankness. 
Why  had  she  gone  like  that?  He  simply  could  not  under- 
stand it. 

Then  anger  began  to  stir.  She  had  treated  him  abom- 
inably. Now  that  she  was  gone  and  he  could  not  marry 
her,  he  experienced  a  bitter  sense  of  frustration.  He  felt 
for  the  moment  that  he  ardently  desired  the  marriage  now 
it  was  placed  beyond  his  reach. 

But  even  as  he  turned  into  the  market  square  a  blessed 
sense  of  relief  began  to  creep  Over  him.  The  registrar's 
office  was  there,  facing  him,  and  all  that  it  implied.  He 
felt  his  heart  give  a  great  thud  against  his  ribs,  like  that 
of  a  man  who  has  narrowly  escaped  a  great  danger. 


246  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Then  the  Vicar  came  by,  hurrying  to  matins. 

"Sorry  to  lose  you,  Unwin.    Off  next  week,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes."  Suddenly  Unwin  made  a  determination.  "No. 
That  is,  I  find  I  have  to  go  to-day  instead." 

"Ah!  Always  things  you  want  in  London  at  the  last 
moment.  Don't  forget  a  solar  tope,  and  insect  powder. 
Hope  to  see  you  back  well  and  hearty  before  long.  Good- 
bye!" 

So  the  Vicar  bustled  along  full  of  his  own  business,  and 
Unwin  looked  at  the  time.  Yes,  his  heavy  baggage  was 
all  gone;  by  using  the  telephone  and  working  hard,  lie 
could  be  ready  to  take  the  three  o'clock  train. 

But  behind  all  the  farewells  and  the  thousand  small  pre- 
occupations of  that  day,  one  thought  urged  like  a  gnawing 
toothache  at  the  back  of  his  mind — he  was  going  away 
without  seeing  Pauline.  He  had  done  with  women,  and 
was  indeed  now  shaking  the  dust  of  the  female  kingdom 
off  his  feet  for  ever — but  he  was  going  away  without  see- 
ing Pauline. 

At  last  Chubb 's  cab  stood  at  the  door  and  it  was  time 
to  go. 

Pauline  sat  by  Aunt  Dickson  mending  stockings — with 
her  pale,  pointed  face  and  shadowy  hair  she  sat  running 
the  threads  in  and  out,  more  like  a  will-o  '-the-wisp  trained 
to  domestic  duties  than  ever.  Her  soul  had  retained  from 
childhood  the  power  of  going  long  secret  journeys  even 
while  she  was  working  or  talking,  and  perhaps  this  was 
one  reason  for  her — not  aloofness — but  some  quality  which 
has  no  equivalent  in  words.  Those  to  whom  such  people 
speak  have  a  subtle  knowledge  that  the  speaker  is  on  such 
a  journey,  though  there  is  no  indication  of  it,  and  they  do 
not  know  they  know.  Perhaps  a  rush  of  coolness  in  the 
mental  air.  .  .  .  Thus  Aunt  Dickson  felt  at  times  a  little 
repelled  by  Pauline,  though  loving  her  so  much. 

It  was  a  relief  to-day,  for  instance,  when  a  tinkle  of 
china  announced  that  Eva  had  returned  from  an  errand 


FAREWELL !  247 

and  was  bringing  in  the  tea.  An  onrush  of  warm,  human 
thoughts  came  with  her.  Pauline  rose  and  put  a  little 
table  near  Aunt  Dickson,  giving  her  a  caress  as  if  uncon- 
sciously asking  forgiveness  for  having  left  her  alone  so 
long. 

Aunt  Dickson  looked  up  with  a  wistful  smile  on  her 
big  red  face.  What  should  she  do  when  Pauline  went? 
And  yet,  of  course,  she  would  marry  and  go  away  some 
time.  She  thought  it  strange  that  the  affair  with  Unwin 
had  altogether  stopped,  and  a  delicacy  of  feeling  rare  in 
elderly  people's  dealings  with  the  young  prevented  her 
from  asking  a  direct  question,  while  Pauline  evaded  indi- 
rect remarks  on  the  subject.  But  here  Eva,  the  outsider — 
as  so  often  happens — plunged  carelessly  into  the  midst  of 
the  hidden  thoughts  of  both. 

"I've  just  seen  Mr.  Unwin,"  she  began  excitedly.  "I 
was  at  the  fish  shop  when  he  drove  in  Chubb 's  cab  across 
the  square.  People  were  calling  out  'Good-luck'  to  him, 
and  he  was  waving  back  at  them — it  was  a  fair  treat — like 
a  circus  going  round  or  something.  It  only  wanted  him 
to  be  throwing  out  little  handbills.  But  he  waved  and 
shouted  a  good  'un,  so  he  did!" 

"Then  he  did  not  seem  to  mind-leaving  Wendlebury?" 
said  Aunt  Dickson. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  Eva;  "he  was  off  on  the  jolly 
jaunt,  he  was!  And  I  for  one  don't  blame  him.  A  young 
man  wants  to  see  a  bit  o'  life.  I  shall  ever  remember  when 
I  cried  at  coming  into  placing  at  Wendlebury — I  was  only 
twelve — and  my  mother  says  to  me,  'Eva,'  she  says,  'some 
sticks  to  one  fowl-run  till  it  goes  sour,  but  not  us  Martins. 
Stop  hollering  at  once,  pack  your  box.'  So  I  did.  And  I 
haven't  never  regretted  it.  I  dessay  Mr.  Unwin  won't 
neither." 

"I  hope  not;  I'm  sure  I  hope  not,"  said  Aunt  Dickson, 
conscious  of  Pauline's  silence. 

"Oh,  and  there's  another  bit  of  news,"  said  Eva. 
"Miss  Lambert's  gone  too!" 


248  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Miss  Lambert!  You  don't  mean  they  have  gone  to- 
gether?" cried  Aunt  Dickson. 

There  was  a  pause  as  Eva  put  a  cake  on  the  table.  And 
into  that  pause  clashed  the  sudden  breaking  of  the  cup 
which  Pauline  held.  Her  tense  grasp  of  it  had  broken  the 
delicate  china. 

' '  Oh,  lor !  Let  me  pick  up  the  bits.  Accidents  will  hap- 
pen, Miss,"  said  Eva. 

"Did  they  go  together?"  said  Pauline. 

"No.  She  went  by  the  first  train  this  morning.  I  met 
Mrs.  Chubb  and  she  told  me  Miss  Lambert  knocked  them 
up  before  six  for  a  cab.  But  both  him  and  her  went  to 
London.  There  wouldn't  be  no  law  against  their  meeting 
in  London,  of  course,"  concluded  Eva,  retiring. 

"Thousands  of  people  go  to  London  every  day  who 
never  meet  there,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  as  the  door  closed. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Pauline,  and  she  began  to  speak  of  a 
knitting  pattern  which  Aunt  Dickson  wished  her  to  find. 
But  behind  the  quiet  desultory  talk  an  unspoken  conver- 
sation went  on  in  which  both  took  part  without  knowing 
it.  Aunt  Dickson  saying  more  beautifully  than  any  words 
could  do,  how  dear  Pauline  was,  and  how  she  would  be 
always  loved  best  and  always  welcome  here,  whatever  the 
world  might  do  to  her.  While  Pauline  replied  in  the  same 
way  that  she  knew,  and  was  comforted,  so  long  as  the  un- 
spoken words  did  not  translate  themselves  into  language. 

But  aloud  she  only  said — 

"I  think  I'll  go  out  for  a  walk  now.  I  have  been  in  all 
day." 

And  Aunt  Dickson  answered — 

"Do;  you  want  some  exercise." 

But  that  unspoken  conversation  with  Aunt  Dickson  was 
one  which  Pauline  always  remembered  very  tenderly; 
more  tenderly  as  the  years  went  on,  and  she  knew  how 
hard  it  is  for  experience  to  keep  silence  in  the  face  of  un- 
tried youth. 

At  this  time,  however,  she  was  only  conscious  of  a  sense 


FAREWELL !  249 

of  intense  relief  as  she  ran  down  the  clean  steps  of  the 
little  house,  leaving  it  all  behind  her.  And  as  she  tramped 
along  the  Ryeford  Road,  seeing  the  dissipated  scarecrow 
breast-high  in  the  ripe  corn,  she  thought  and  feared  and 
wondered  until  her  tired  brain  refused  to  conjecture  any 
longer.  One  fact  at  least  was  plain:  Unwin  had  gpne 
away  without  saying  good-bye  or  trying  to  see  her.  He 
could  not  have  done  that  if  he  had  not  quite  finished 
with  her.  She  had  nothing  to  hope  for  now.  No  more 
listening  for  the  bell  or  watching  from  the  window.  Only 
a  dead  certainty  that  she  must  live  her  life  as  best  she 
might  without  him. 

And  in  saying  that  to  herself,  she  realised  that  in  spite 
of  assuming  despair  she  had  really  always  kept  full  of 
hope. 

Next  morning,  being  Sunday,  Pauline  stood  in  the  win- 
dow buttoning  her  gloves. 

' '  It  looks  rather  like  rain, ' '  said  Aunt  Dickson,  glancing 
at  Pauline's  slim  figure  in  the  filmy  grey  gown.  "I  don't 
think  I  should  go  to  church  if  I  were  you!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  it  will  keep  off  until  I  get  back,"  said 
Pauline. 

But  both  knew  that  it  was  one  of  Wendlebury's  rare 
days  of  absolutely  settled  dry  weather,  and  that  Aunt 
Dickson  was  advising  Pauline  to  spare  herself  an  ordeal. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  said  Pauline,  hastily  breaking  one 
of  those  pauses  in  which  unspoken  things  grow  too  loud. 
"Don't  I  look  a  swell  in  my  new  frock?" 

"It  suits  you  down  to  the  ground,"  said  Aunt  Dickson 
cheerily.  "Good-bye,  dear." 

So  the  door  banged  and  she  was  left  alone  by  the  win- 
dow, while  the  bells  rang  out,  as  always  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing— 

"Come,  you  Wendlebury  people, 
Come  and  pray  beneath  your  steeple." 


250  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Then,  changing  the  chime — 

"Come          Wen     bur    peo 

you          die      y        pie, 
"Come  and  pray  be-neath  your  steeple!" 

And  lastly — 

"Come!     Come!     Come!" 

Aunt  Dickson  listened  to  it  all  through  the  open  win- 
dow, and  watched  the  churchgoers  hurrying  past.  She 
smiled  at  one,  waved  to  another,  and  at  last  the  street  was 
empty. 

She  took  up  the  prayer-book  and  began  to  read  the 
service;  no  doubt  finding  in  it  that  which  could  soothe 
and  console  her  active  spirit  as  she  sat  there,  bound  by 
her  infirmities. 

The  service  was  over,  and  the  congregation  emerged  into 
the  pleasant  flowery  greenness  of  the  churchyard.  A 
group  formed  beside  the  path  consisting  of  several  Wen- 
dlebury  ladies  who  were  well  acquainted.  They  wore 
turned  silks  and  pale  alpacas  that  had  done  duty  for  many 
summers,  but  each  gown  somehow  possessed  a  delicate 
freshness  which  seemed  to  be  unfading,  like  the  scent  of 
lavender.  Mrs.  Delamere  and  Pauline  alone  wore  dresses 
new  that  year,  but  Mrs.  Delamere 's  gloves  were  less  fresh 
than  Miss  Harriet's,  and  Pauline's  silk  stockings  were  not 
so  fine  as  Miss  Amelia's  often  mended  summer  Sunday 
ones,  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Carter 
wore  the  purple  cashmere  that  all  affectionately  remem- 
bered, while  the  Vicar's  wife  had  brought  forth  again  the 
silk  which  she  bought  for  her  sister's  wedding — the  sister 
who  now  possessed  a  baby  able  to  read. 

On  the  whole  there  was  something  very  charming  about 
the  group — delicate  skins,  clear,  faded  eyes — as  if  the 


FAREWELL!  251 

ladies  themselves  had  been  put  by  very  carefully  in  silver 
paper.  And  Pauline  harmonised  with  them  well  enough, 
but  Mary  Carter,  coming  briskly  up  the  path,  seemed  a 
thought  too  new  and  strongly  coloured.  There  was  a  pleas- 
ant murmur  of  greetings. 

''So  glad  to  see  you  out  again,  Miss  Harriet." 

' '  Yes,  delightful  weather !  Mr.  Unwin  will  have  a  calm 
passage." 

"Oh,  he  does  not  actually  sail  until  Wednesday." 

So  they  spoke  together  in  little  short  phrases,  preening 
themselves  in  the  sunshine. 

Then  Miss  Argle  said,  speaking  with  clear  precision — 

"I  hope  Mr.  Unwin  will  do  well.  A  nice  young  fellow, 
but  better  away  from  Wendlebury." 

"Why?"  demanded  Mary  Carter  abruptly. 

"Oh,  a  new  beginning  .  .  .  always  a  good  thing,"  said 
Miss  Argle,  rather  taken  aback. 

"He  hadn't  done  anything  wrong,"  said  Mary. 

"No,"  agreed  Miss  Argle  apologetically;  "but  I  am 
afraid  his  money  affairs  must  have  been  .  .  .  My  people 
found  a  pawn  ticket  when  they  picked  him  up.  The  mo- 
tor accident,  you  know?" 

"Then  they  ought  to  have  kept  it  to  themselves,"  an- 
nounced Mary  Carter.  "Least  they  could  do  after  knock- 
ing him  down  was  to  keep  silence  about  what  he  had  in 
his  pockets."  She  turned  to  Pauline.  "Don't  you  think 
so,  Pauline?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Pauline,  unable  to  say  more. 

"I  am  sure  my  relatives  are  most  scrupulously  honour- 
able," said  Miss  Argle,  turning  very  red.  "They  never 
meant  it  to  go  any  further  .  .  .  they  would  never  dream 
...  I  was  only  showing  what  a  good  thing  it  was  that 
young  Unwin  had  left  Wendlebury." 

"Only  fancy!"  said  Miss  Harriet  in  her  deep  tones, 
"Reduced  to  pawning  his  wardrobe!  I  fear  he  must  have 
led  a  sad  life  before  being  brought  to  such  straits!  How 
little  one  knows  of  what  is  taking  place  even  within  the 


252  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

narrow  radius  of  one's  own  social  circle.  What's  that!" 
For  a  strange  little  noise,  something  resembling  the  sneeze 
of  a  cat,  had  come  from  the  billowy  mass  of  grey  and 
lavender  of  which  Miss  Amelia  was  the  centre. 

"Has  Mrs.  Delamere's  Midge  escaped  and  come  to  meet 
her?"  said  the  Vicar's  wife,  stepping  quickly  aside,  for 
every  one  hated  and  feared  that  pampered  canine  morsel. 

Then  the  noise  came  again  and  it  was  plainly  human. 

"Amelia!"  thundered  Miss  Harriet. 

"It "  Poor  Miss  Amelia  choked  and  then  went  on, 

turning  tragic  eyes  from  one  to  the  other  of  those  as- 
tounded faces,  "It  was  my  pawn  ticket!" 

"Yours!"  gasped  Miss  Harriet. 

"I  got  Mr.  Unwin  to  pawn  some  jewelry  for  me.  I  was 
short  of  money  when  you  were  ill.  I  didn't  want  to  worry 
you,"  faltered  Miss  Amelia. 

"And  you  could  think  of  no  better  solution  than  such 
a  one  as  this,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  also  in  her  way  tragic. 
"Amelia,  I  thank  heaven  our  father  is  not  alive  to  see  this 
day " 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  wringing  her  hands 
in  the  cleaned  lavender-coloured  gloves  and  weeping  bit- 
terly. "I  know  I  have  brought  disgrace  on  the  family." 

' '  I  wish  my  tongue  had  been  cut  out ! ' '  said  Miss  Argle, 
also  weeping. 

Then  Pauline  stepped  forward  and  put  a  sheltering  arm 
round  the  poor  trembling  Miss  Amelia. 

"There  is  nothing  to  cry  about,"  she  said  gently. 
"Why,  it  was  just  the  most  sensible  thing  you  could  have 
done.  We  should  all  have  done  the  same  if  we  had  only 
had  pluck  and  initiative  enough  to  think  of  it. ' ' 

"No,  no.  Don't  say  that!  Don't  let  my  example  lead 
you  astray.  That  would  be  worse  than  anything,"  cried 
the  poor  trembling  lady. 

"I  won't  pawn  anything  unless  I  am  positively  obliged, 
and  then  I  shall  feel  I  have  done  right,"  said  Pauline. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  but  she  reflected 


FAREWELL !  253 

with  a  wistful  regret  that  the  dear  girl's  commercial 
career  had  blunted  the  delicacy  of  her  perceptions  in  such 
matters. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  all  the  ladies  looked  towards 
Mrs.  Delamere;  but  defiantly,  as  it  were,  daring  her  to 
pronounce  judgment  against  Miss  Amelia. 

She  responded  by  soaring  high  above  Wendlebury. 

' '  Dear  Miss  Amelia,  how  quaint  of  you !  I  really  must 
tell  my  brother-in-law,  Lord  Southwater,  when  I  next  stay 
with  him,"  and  she  flashed  her  teeth  upon  the  agitated 
group. 

But  at  this  the  worm  turned.  Miss  Amelia  had  torn  up 
something  within  herself  by  the  roots  in  order  to  make 
that  confession,  and  she  was  not  going  to  be  called 
"quaint"  as  she  stood  bleeding  there. 

"I  thought  your  one  annual  visit  to  Lord  Southwater 
had  already  taken  place,"  she  said,  trembling  very  much 
indeed.  "Perhaps  next  year  you  may  have  something 
more  interesting  to  talk  about." 

The  shaft  went  home.  Mrs.  Delamere  could  not  say 
definitely  that  she  had  the  run  of  Southwater  Park  all  the 
year  round.  But  the  honours  of  war  remained  with  her 
as  she  replied  with  great1  dignity — 

"No.  No.  We  always  like  to  talk  of  the  little  happen- 
ings here.  I  assure  you  that  we  both  take  the  greatest 
possible  interest  in  Wendlebury." 

Then  she  turned  to  Miss  Argle,  who  was  murmuring 
apologies,  and  mopping  her  eyes,  and  behaving  generally 
in  a  manner  quite  unbecoming  a  descendant  of  the  ruth- 
less Argles  of  Argle  Towers,  and  she  towed  that  distressed 
member  of  the  aristocracy  swiftly  away  with  her  down 
the  churchyard  path. 

"Come  home,  Amelia,"  commanded  Miss  Harriet. 

But  the  tone  in  which  she  said  it  caused  Mary  Carter, 
who  was  already  filled  with  indignant  sympathy,  to  state 
with  crude  abruptness — 


254  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"She  shan't  go  home  with  you  unless  you  promise  not 
to  bully  her.  So  now!" 

"Mary!"  pleaded  her  mother. 

"My  dear!"  murmured  Miss  Amelia,  grateful  but 
deeply  shocked. 

"I  don't  care!"  said  Mary;  "I  can  see  it  in  her  eye 
she  is  going  to  bully  Miss  Amelia.  And  I  won 't  have  it ! " 

"Mary!  Mary!"  pleaded  Mrs.  Carter,  trembling  like 
a  pink-and-white  blancmange  under  her  purple  gown. 
"She  does  not  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  Miss  Harriet.  It 
is  only  that  she  is  so  fond  of  Miss  Amelia." 

But  here  Miss  Amelia  withdrew  herself  a  little  and 
faced  them  all,  saying  surprisingly,  but  with  intense  ear- 
'nestness — 

"Now  I  have  had  time  to  think,  I  never  was  so  relieved 
in  my  life.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  just  coming  away  from  the 
dentist  after  having  a  double  tooth  extracted ;  I  do  indeed. 
Every  time  Harriet  looked  at  me,  I  quivered  in  a  way  I 
can  never  describe,  as  if  my  outside  remained  stationary 
while  my  internal  arrangements  changed  places,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean  ? ' ' 

"I  do  not,"  said  Miss  Harriet. 

"But  it  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Unwin,"  maintained  Miss 
Amelia. 

"Kind!"  trumpeted  Miss  Harriet.  "Do  you  think  my 
sister  would  ever  have  attempted  such  an  escapade  with- 
out his  connivance?  It  is  well  that  he  has  sailed  for  a 
shore  where,  I  gather,  the  temptations  of  a  gay  town  like 
"Wendlebury  are  absent.  I  like  young  Unwin,  but  that  is 
my  opinion."  Then  she  turned  to  Miss  Amelia:  "Let  us 
go  home  to  luncheon." 

So  the  little  group  moved  away  through  the  now  empty 
churchyard,  Miss  Amelia  murmuring  obstinately  that  it 
was  all  her  own  idea,  and  that  Unwin  had  behaved  most 
nobly,  and  that  Harriet  could  say  what  she  liked.  As 
they  passed  the  yew  hedge  near  the  grave  of  the  stranger 
who  had  died  at  the  Dragon  at  Ryeford,  the  Vicar's  wife 


FAREWELL !  255 

endeavoured  to  clear  the  mental  atmosphere  by  saying 
brightly — 

' '  See !  Some  one  has  been  putting  flowers  on  the  stran- 
ger's  grave.  I  wonder  who  it  can  be!" 

"Perhaps  the  landlady  of  the  Dragon,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Carter,  to  whom  her  husband  never  told  his  professional 
secrets. 

"They  are  ordinary  market  flowers,"  said  Pauline. 

And  the  ladies  stood  still  again  for  a  moment  in  the 
sunshine,  looking  at  the  bunch  of  country  flowers  which 
Delia  had  bought  the  day  before  with  the  dew  still  on 
them,  as  she  hurried  through  the  little  town  to  order 
Chubb 's  cab.  The  dew  had  all  dried  off  now  and  they 
had  faded,  but  they  still  made  a  patch  of  colour  and 
sweetness. 

"I  expect  it  must  be  the  landlady,"  repeated  Mrs.  Car- 
ter, breaking  that  little  silence,  and  they  walked  on  again 
talking  together.  But  Pauline  said  nothing  because  she 
was  feeling  so  vividly  what  this  stranger's  death  had 
meant  in  her  life.  The  whole  scene  on  that  morning  out- 
side the  Dragon  Inn  rose  before  her  eyes  with  extraordi- 
nary clearness.  It  was  almost  like  a  vision  appearing  be- 
tween her  and  the  faded  roses  and  stocks  and  southern- 
wood on  the  grave,  leaving  them  visible  without  destroy- 
ing the  delicate  clearness  of  that  morning  scene  .  .  .  the 
pale  light  on  the  road  .  .  .  Unwin's  young  figure  in  even- 
ing dress  against  the  doorpost. 

Then  Mary  Carter  was  speaking — 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Unwin  put  the  flowers  there.  He  used 
to  visit  the  poor  man." 

"Oh,  he  would  be  too  busy,"  said  the  Vicar's  wife  de- 
cidedly. 

So,  still  wondering,  they  tripped  along  the  Sunday 
streets,  going  one  by  one  into  the  straight-fronted  houses 
where  tables  were  spread  with  fine,  beautifully  mended 
damask.  Soon  tiny  joints  on  blue  china  dishes  made  their 
appearance,  followed  by  such  sweets  as  canary  pudding 


256  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

and  cup  custard,  whose  very  names  seemed  redolent  of  the 
rich  meadows  about  Wendlebury. 

Such  a  story  as  that  of  Miss  Amelia  and  the  pawn- 
broker's shop,  however,  long  outlived  any  vague  surmises 
about  an  unknown  grave,  and  it  finally  reached  the  august 
ears  of  Lord  Southwater  through  those  very  Argles  of 
Argle  Towers  who  had  picked  up  TJnwin  and  found  the 
pawn  ticket.  For  a  moment  that  excellent  peer  felt 
slightly  worried,  feeling  that  he  had  done  Unwin  some 
little  injustice.  But  he  soon  reasoned  himself  into  the 
comfortable  conviction  that  this  visit  of  Unwin 's  to  the 
pawnbroker  on  Miss  Amelia's  business  was  neither  the 
first  nor  last.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  right,  as  usual, 
in  condemning  the  young  man  who  stepped  from  under 
the  three  balls  with  such  a  jaunty,  accustomed  air.  He 
could  not,  without  greater  cause,  convict  himself  of  in- 
justice. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WINTER-TIME 

IT   was   "Wednesday   night,    and   Pauline  stood   in   the 
kitchen  heating  some  milk.     Eva,  returning  from  her 
night  out,  hurst  through  the  doorway  with  an  indignant — 

"So  that's  over!" 

Pauline  started,  the  words  fitting  in  so  marvellously  with 
her  own  thoughts  at  that  moment.  For  she  had  heen 
experiencing  during  the  past  three  days  such  a  torture  of 
suspense  every  time  a  postman  went  down  the  street  or 
a  telegraph  hoy  bicycled  past,  that  the  present  certainty 
of  Unwin  having  sailed  without  a  word  or  sign  of  fare- 
well seemed  almost  like  happiness.  All  who  have  experi- 
enced intolerable  suspense  for  any  cause  know  that  strange 
happy  moment  when  it  stops,  even  though  the  next  mo- 
ment may  plunge  them  into  the  very  depths  of  sorrow. 

' '  If  it  wasn  't  for  the  looks  of  the  thing, ' '  continued  Eva 
vehemently,  "I  would  never  walk  out  with  anybody  again. 
Only  if  you  don't,  the  other  girls  thinks  you  can't.  Mark 
my  words,  Miss  Pauline,  there's  more  girls  goes  out  with 
young  men  because,  if  they  don't,  they're  frightened  of 
having  it  thought  they  can't,  than  anybody  would  ever 
dream  of.  D'you  expect  /  wanted  to  go  gorming  about 
with  a  bandy-legged  chap  that  couldn  't  say  '  Bo '  to  a  goose  ? 
Of  course  I  didn't!  But  when  I  had  brought  myself  to 
it,  I  nat 'rally  boiled  with  rage  to  come  across  him  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm  with  somebody  else." 

' '  But  what  a  good  thing  you  did  not  really  care ! ' '  said 
Pauline. 

257 


258  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Eva,  rapidly  regaining  her  compo- 
sure. "It  was  only  just  for  the  minute,  as  you  may  say, 
and  because  the  girl  was  that  little  fat  lump  of  a  general 
from  across  the  street  that  always  has  holes  in  her  stock- 
ing-feet. I  didn't  like  being  cut  out  by  her.  But  what  is 
to  be,  will  be.  Some  knows  how  to  draw  the  men  on  and 
some  doesn't.  There's  that  Miss  Lambert  now — her  as 
went  off  with  Mr.  Unwin — she  had  the  sort  of  'Come-on- 
lad'  way  with  her  that  makes  a  man  think  he's  doing  all 
the  coming.  It's  a  thing  you  can't  get;  you  must  be  born 
with  it,  and  after  all  you  and  me  has  plenty  else  to  be 
thankful  for,  Miss  Pauline." 

"We  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Unwin  and  Miss  Lambert 
ever  even  met  after  they  left  "Wendlebury, "  said  Pauline, 
ignoring  the  consolatory  reflection. 

But  she  had  so  often  pictured  them  meeting  in  every 
imaginable  fashion,  during  the  past  three  days,  that  her 
voice  carried  no  conviction. 

"Oh,  he'd  be  after  her,"  said  Eva.  "She's  one  of  them 
— like  that  fat  general — you  don't  know  why  they  are,  but 
they  are.  I  shall  ever  remember  a  young  man  that  I 
walked  out  with  once  when  I  was  at  home  on  my  holi- 
days. "We  used  to  get  to  a  place  every  night  where  there 
was  some  gorse  bushes  all  yellow  over  and  smelling  beau- 
tiful with  the  dew.  And  he  used  to  stop  a  minute — a  fine 
set-up  young  feller  he  was — and  he'd  say  every  time: 
'Look  at  them  gorse  bushes!  When  gorse  is  out  o'  flower, 
kissing 's  out  o'  fashion.'  Then  he'd  go  on  again.  But 
one  night  I  let  my  cousin  as  was  spending  the  week-end 
with  us  walk  on  with  him  while  I  went  to  the  shop  for 
Mother.  I  came  up  with  'em  just  at  the  corner  where  the 
gorse  bushes  was.  I  never  meant  to  be  sly  nor  nothing, 
but  my  feet  made  no  noise  on  the  grass,  and  I  was  behind ; 
so  I  heard  him  say  just  as  usual:  'When  gorse  is  out  o' 
flower,  kissing 's  out  o'  fashion.'  I  must  own  I  didn't 
much  like  him  saying  it  to  her,  too,  so  I  stopped  still  a 


WINTER-TIME  259 

bit,  waiting  for  him  to  walk  on  as  he  always  did."  Eva 
paused,  and  added  solemnly:  "Miss  Pauline,  he  didn't 
walk  on." 

' '  Um, ' '  said  Pauline,  vaguely,  going  towards  the  door. 

"He  started  to,  but  he  eatched  sight  of  her  standing 
still  and  hanging  her  head  down — the  puss!  Not  that  I 
blame  her,"  added  Eva  generously,  "for  I  should,  my- 
self, if  I  'd  ha '  thought  of  it  and  known  how  it  would  act. 
I  liked  that  young  feller.  Well,  she  just  hung  her  head 
down,  and  twiddled  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  said,  as 
if  she  couldn't  bring  it  out,  she  was  so  shy:  'Gorse  is  i' 
flower  now,  Mr.  Peters.'  His  name  being  Peters."  She 
paused. 

"Well?"  said  Pauline. 

"Oh!"  said  Eva,  clashing  the  kettle  upon  the  stone. 
' '  What  do  you  think !  They  was  kissing  each  other  before 
I  could  get  round  the  next  bush,  of  course." 

' '  He  was  not  worth  having, ' '  responded  Pauline ;  ' '  and 
she  was  a  minx." 

"I  wouldn't  go  for  to  say  that,"  replied  Eva  philo- 
sophically. "It's  just  that  I  wasn't  one  of  them — she  was 
— and  there  you  have  it ! " 

Pauline  again  took  up  the  cup  of  milk  and  left  the 
kitchen,  but  the  moment  of  comparative  happiness  was 
already  over.  During  the  past  three  days  every  other 
feeling  had  remained  in  abeyance  as  she  waited,  but  now 
that  it  was  of  no  use  waiting  any  longer,  she  began  to 
see  a  future  which  Unwin  and  Delia  Lambert  would  share 
together  while  she  remained  outside.  Something  more 
than  accident  must  have  caused  Delia  to  go  to  London 
on  the  same  day  as  Unwin,  after  so  many  weeks  in  Wen- 
dlebury,  and  something  more  than  the  mere  pleasure  of 
meeting,  otherwise  she  would  scarcely  have  rushed  off  in 
that  fashion  never  to  return.  There  was  every  evidence 
of  a  break-up  of  old  conditions  and  a  fresh  start — to- 
gether. That  was  how  Pauline  felt  forced  to  think  of 
them  now,  so  that  even  her  thoughts  of  Unwin  were 


260  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

spoiled,  which  is  the  last  affliction  of  love.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  she  went  down  the  passage  to  the  sitting-room,  that 
she  would  have  been  happy  in  picturing  him  alone. 

But  the  next  morning,  wThen  the  letters  came,  she  found 
by  the  blankness  of  her  disappointment  that  she  had  after 
all  continued  to  hope  without  knowing  it,  and  that  though 
she  seemed  to  have  done  with  suspense  it  still  troubled 
her.  As  she  went  along  the  street  to  the  fishmonger's  in 
order  to  inspect  the  silver  and  pink  of  the  late  salmon  lest 
Aunt  Dickson  should  be  disappointed,  Pauline  imagined 
she  was  making  herself  think  about  the  morning's  shop- 
ping, and  the  prospect  of  rain,  and  the  soft  pleasantness 
of  the  moist  air.  And  that  same  self-deceiving  frame  of 
mind  caused  her  to  accept  the  ridiculous  excuse  that  she 
must  turn  down  a  certain  street,  and  go  to  a  certain  shop, 
because  the  old  watercress  man  sometimes  came  that  way 
into  Wendlebury  and  Aunt  Dickson  liked  watercress. 

Even  when  she  entered  the  little  shop  and  stood  choos- 
ing hairpins,  she  still  managed  to  impose  upon  herself  this 
belief.  But  when  the  middle-aged  spinster  behind  the 
counter  said  feelingly:  "Those  with  the  notch  are  best. 
Dear!  Dear!  You'll  know  what  a  loss  we've  had,  Miss 
Westcott!"  she  blushed  at  her  own  want  of  candour  with 
herself  and  owned  that  she  had  come  here  to  catch  if 
possible  a  stray  word  about  Unwin. 

' '  Mr.  Unwin  lodged  with  you  a  long  time,  did  he  not  ? ' ' 
she  said,  pulling  a  hairpin  out  of  a  packet  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  "notch."  "You  must  miss  him — always  so 
cheerful ' ' 

"Miss  him!"  said  the  thin  spinster,  her  nose-end  flush- 
ing with  emotion  until  the  water  stood  in  her  pale  eyes. 
"I  give  you  my  word,  Miss  Westcott,  it's  like  it  was  when 
our  old  cat  died  that  we'd  had  thirteen  years — you  lis- 
tened for  a  mew  though  you  knew  no  mew  wouldn't  come 
— and  that 's  how  me  and  my  poor  mother  that 's  ill  listens 
for  Mr.  Unwin 's  click  of  the  door  and  him  whistling  on 
the  stairs."  She  wiped  her  eyes.  "We  did  used  to  put 


WINTER-TIME  261 

blame  on  him  for  not  being  more  serious,  but  I  've  come  to 
think  what-you-may-call  jolly  silliness  is  as  good  as  them 
Blue  Pills  for  Bilious  Beggars  that  Mother  swears  by." 
Here  she  began  to  weep  softly,  sniffing  and  dabbing  her 
eyes,  and  murmuring  apologetically:  "Please  forgive  me, 
Miss  Westcott,  but  seeing  you  brought  it  all  back  so — him 
and  you  used  to  be  such  friends  before  he  got  in  with  that 
Miss  Lambert — and  with  Mother  upstairs  and  the  shop  to 
look  after,  I've  got  a  bit  run  down." 

Pauline's  heart  was  filled  with  a  sort  of  touched  laugh- 
ter as  she  listened — the  sort  of  laughter  which  fills  the 
eyes  of  people  not  much  given  to  crying — and  so  these  two 
women,  one  on  either  side  of  the  little  battered  counter, 
grew  nearer  to  one  another  in  five  minutes  than  seemed 
at  all  credible,  because  of  their  common  love  for  Unwin. 
Pauline  knew  she  loved  him,  but  the  thin  spinster  re- 
mained quite  unaware  that  he  stood  for  all  the  romance 
and  glamour  which  she  had  started  out  to  seek  long  ago, 
in  a  pigtail  and  a  "dress  improver." 

"Well!"  said  Pauline  at  last,  gathering  up  a  number 
of  hairpins  in  her  hand.  "I'll  take  these,  please." 

Immediately,  these  were  no  longer  two  souls  in  secret 
fellowship  glorified  by  love,  but  two  bodies  who  wished 
to  obliterate  the  souls'  indiscretions. 

"And  that  is  all  to-day,  you  think?"  said  the  spinster, 
bustling  to  wrap  up  the  hairpins.  "Quite  pleasant  for 
the  time  of  year.  Thank  you.  Good-day  I7' 

"Yes,  quite  delightful.  Good-morning,"  replied  Pau- 
line, and  so  they  parted. 

But  as  she  walked  home  through  the  pretty,  narrow 
streets,  she  was  struck  afresh,  not  by  their  charm  but  by 
their  narrowness.  She  felt  a  sudden  over-mastering  desire 
to  go  away  into  the  open  world  again,  and  fight  for  her 
own  living,  and  feel  the  winds  of  life  blowing  about  her. 
When  she  reached  her  own  house  with  its  immaculate  steps 
and  shining  knocker  set  in  a  demure  row  with  the  other 
straight-fronted  houses  on  either  side,  this  feeling  became 


262  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

so  strong  that  it  rushed  her  on  past  Aunt  Dickson's  smile 
and  beckoning  hand  at  the  window,  until  she  was  out  on 
the  Ryeford  Road  with  the  scarecrow's  fluttering  rags 
abreast  of  her. 

Then  she  stood  still,  staring  at  the  desolate  flapping  of 
the  ragged  coat,  at  the  stick  emerging  bare  and  hatless, 
but  without  seeing  them.  Her  mind  was  fixed  upon  what 
must  be  said  to  Aunt  Dickson. 

As  she  paced  slowly  back  again,  the  clock  chimed  the 
hour  as  it  had  done  when  Delamere  came  back  over  half 
the  world  to  listen,  and  those  chimes  seemed  to  her,  as 
they  had  done  to  him,  the  very  essence  and  spirit  of  Wen- 
dlebury  and  all  it  stood  for.  And  those  very  things  were 
what,  in  her  present  state  of  mind,  she  could  not  endure. 
Better  any  sordid  rush  of  work  and  struggle  and  ugly 
noises  than  the  exquisite  little  town  with  its  delicate  cur- 
tain of  grey  rain  and  its  ring  of  emerald  fields. 

She  entered  the  front  room  so  urged  by  this  feeling, 
and  engrossed  in  her  desire  to  get  away,  that  she  did  not 
plan  to  spare  Aunt  Dickson;  and  said  without  warning — 

"Aunt  Dickson — you've  been  so  very,  very  good  to  me 
— but  I  think  it  is  time  I  turned  out  again  and  began  to 
earn  my  own  living." 

Pauline's  tone  said  more  than  her  words,  and  the  big 
old  woman  turned  round,  startled,  her  face  growing  a 
deep  crimson. 

' '  What 's  made  you  suddenly  think  that  ?  Have.  I  done 
anything  to  hurt  you?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Pauline.  "You  have  never  done  any- 
thing but  shower  kindnesses  on  me.  You  know  that.  It 
is  only " 

"You  find  it  too  quiet?" 

"Not  that,  exactly." 

Aunt  Dickson  sighed,  then  forced  herself  to  smile. 

"Don't  look  so  distressed,  Pauline.  You  are  young, 
and  it  is  natural  you  should  want  a  change.  Go,  and 
remember  there  is  always  a  home  here  for  you  to  come 


WINTER-TIME  263 

back  to.  Whatever  happens,  I'm  always  wanting  you.  It 
doesn't  make  a  bad  background  to  life,  to  know  there's 
somewhere  where  you  are  always  wanted." 

But  suspense  and  sleepless  nights  and  the  sorrow  of 
losing  love  had  reduced  Pauline  to  a  state  of  mind  and 
body  in  which  this  kindness  of  Aunt  Dickson's  was  just 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

"There's  no  one — no  one  in  the  world "  she  fal- 
tered, struggling  for  words,  and  then  went  hastily  out, 
fearing  to  upset  the  invalid  by  making  a  scene. 

After  she  had  gone,  and  there  came  the  final  sound  of 
the  bedroom  door  closing,  Aunt  Dickson  put  down  her 
knitting  and  sat  quite  still  for  a  long  time,  looking  out 
into  the  street.  The  evening  news-girl  passed  and  handed 
the  paper  in  at  the  window  as  usual,  expectant  of  the  sun- 
shine which  fell  across  her  day  when  Aunt  Dickson  ex- 
changed with  her  a  jolly  greeting — for  that  was  how  peo- 
ple came  to  turn  their  hearts  to  Aunt  Dickson  as  daisies 
turn  their  faces  to  the  sun — but  to-night  she  was  disap- 
pointed, and  went  on  her  way  feeling  chilled  as  if  the  east 
wind  had  suddenly  begun  to  blow  and  the  blue  sky  were 
clouded  over. 

After  a  while,  however,  the  big  old  woman  ceased  to  sit 
huddled  in  her  chair,  gave  herself  a  shake  and  took  hold 
of  the  telephone  receiver,  murmuring  briskly:  "Pauline 
is  so  fond  of  fried  sole.  I'll  ring  up  and  see  if  I  can  get 
a  nice  sole  for  supper." 

Then  came  the  fishmonger's  boy  whistling  to  the  door, 
and  he  had  twopence  for  cycling  in  such  haste,  and  there 
was  a  conversation  with  Eva,  and  before  you  could  turn 
round  the  little,  silent  house  was  full  of  pleasant,  splutter- 
ing sounds  and  the  chink  of  china  being  put  to  warm, 
and  in  the  kitchen  there  was  a  savoury  smell  of  frying, 
and  the  clear  fragrance  of  fresh-cut  lemons. 

So  when  Pauline  descended,  tired  and  apprehensive,  she 
found  quite  a  little  banquet  spread,  with  Aunt  Dickson 


264  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

beaming  over  delicate  golden-brown  fillets  on  a  blue  dish 
surrounded  by  green  parsley  and  slices  of  lemon — the  very 
poetry  of  eating — and  Maids  of  Honour  all  almonds  and 
soft  sweetness  from  the  old  shop  where  Unwin  and  Pauline 
had  once  been  served  with  Lovers'  Kisses  by  the  sympa- 
thetic owner. 

The  little  meal  was  cheerful  enough  because  Aunt  Dick- 
son  belonged  to  that  odd  company  who  find  a  sort  of  ex- 
hilaration for  the  moment  in  boldly  facing  another  blow, 
while  Pauline's  overstrung  nerves  lent  themselves  to  such 
a  gay  response  that  by  the  end  of  supper  Aunt  Dickson 
was  genuinely  laughing. 

But  when  Eva  came  in  to  clear  away  she  struck  a 
discordant  note. 

"Not  much  eaten,  for  all  the  laughing  and  talking." 

She  spoke  in  a  resentful  tone,  clashing  the  plates  to- 
gether, and  Aunt  Dickson  felt  bound  to  say  reprovingly — 

"You  are  sorry  Miss  Pauline  is  going,  Eva?" 

"No,  I  aren't,  'm.  She  needn't  unless  she  wants  to. 
Us  Martins  was  never  ones  for  sitting  down  and  making 
a  trouble  of  things  as  can  be  mended.  We  mend  'em, 
or  we  don't  bother  no  more  about  'em." 

The  door  banged  on  Eva's  retreating  apron  strings. 

"Eva  seems  put  out.  Poor  girl,  she  is  very  fond  of 
you,"  apologised  Aunt  Dickson.  Then  she  got  out  her 
cards  and  began  to  play  Patience  by  the  fire  while  Pauline 
sat  doing  some  Russian  translation  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room. 

For  some  time  neither  of  them  spoke.  Every  now  and 
then  she  glanced  up  to  ask  if  the  cards  were  going  well, 
and  Aunt  Dickson  nodded  cheerfully.  At  last  the  scratch 
of  the  pen  ceased  and  the  room  was  very  silent;  only  the 
fall  of  the  ashes  and  the  creaking  of  Aunt  Dickson 's  black 
silk  as  she  moved  in  her  chair  to  place  the  cards.  The 
clock  struck  nine,  making  clear,  separate  sounds  which  fell 
and  spread  on  the  quiet  like  rings  in  a  pool.  As  the  final 


WINTER-TIME  265 

number  fell,  some  spring  seemed  to  be  released  in  Pau- 
line's mind. 

"You  have  not  played  Patience  for  a  year,"  she  said. 
"I  wonder  what  has  made  you  start  again?" 

But  she  knew  quite  well  that  Aunt  Dickson  was  thus  al- 
ready arming  herself  for  the  long,  dull  evenings  of  a  lonely 
winter :  and  the  sight  touched  her  far  more  deeply  than  any 
tears  or  complaining  could  have  done. 

"Oh!"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  "one  gets  a  fancy  for  dif- 
ferent things.  I  started  jig-saw  puzzles,  you  know."  Then, 
seeing  Pauline's  troubled  face,  she  added:  "Now,  you 
needn  't  look  like  that,  dear !  I  am  so  glad  to  have  had  you. 
It  has  been  such  a  happy  time  in  my  life.  But  I  won't  spoil 
it  all  by  the  way  I  let  you  go!"  She  paused.  "Old  peo- 
ple have  got  to  bear  loneliness  just  as  babies  have  to  bear 
helplessness.  It's  just  part  of  life.  You  start  out,  such  a 
lot  of  you  together,  that  you  can 't  picture  ever  being  alone. 
Then  if  you  live  long  enough  they  all  drop  off,  one  by  one. 
You're  left.  But  you  go  plodding  on." 

Pauline  gazed  at  Aunt  Dickson 's  face,  unable  to  realise 
that  she  too  would  one  day  be  feeling  the  same  if  she  lived 
long  enough. 

"How  brave  all  old  people  must  be!"  she  said  at 
last. 

Aunt  Dickson  shook  her  head. 

"You  forget  what's  in  front  of  you.  You're  getting 
very  near  home." 

Then  silence  again,  Aunt  Dickson  moving  the  cards  and 
Pauline  striving  to  fix  her  mind  on  her  work.  But  be- 
tween her  and  that  new  and  enchanted  country  which  every 
fresh  language  opens  to  those  who  have  eyes  to  see,  there 
came  the  big  red  face  of  Aunt  Dickson  with  its  expression 
of  mingled  bravery  and  wistfulness.  She  rose  from  the 
table  and  went  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  Aunt  Dickson 's 
shoulder. 

"After  all,  I  should  like  to  stay  just  until  the  winter  is 


266  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

over  if  you  will  have  me, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Winter 's  a  bad  time 
for  working  women." 

"You  want  to  stay?"  Aunt  Dickson's  veined  hands 
trembled  as  they  moved  over  the  cards,  but  she  spoke 
quietly,  lightly,  just  as  Pauline  had  done. 

' '  I  'd  love  to  stay  if  you  '11  have  me — eating  my  head  off ! " 

They  both  laughed,  not  that  there  was  anything  to  laugh 
at,  but  because  both  were  rather  inclined  to  cry,  and  neither 
wished  to  hurt  the  other  by  a  too  great  exhibition  of  feel- 
ing. It  came  as  a  relief  when  Eva  opened  the  door  and 
said:  "Mrs.  Chubb 's  in  the  kitchen,  'm.  She  wants  to 
know  if  you  can  do  without  her  next  week.  Her  and 
Chubb 's  going  by  a  cheap  trip  to  London." 

"Mrs.  Chubb!  Going  to  London!"  cried  Aunt  Dick- 
son,  shuffling  the  cards  together.  "Of  course  I  can  do 
without  her.  Ask  her  if  she  has  a  handbag.  I  can  lend 
her  a  handbag." 

And  immediately  the  prospect  of  the  Chubbs  in  London 
— the  Chubbs  seeing  St.  Paul's — the  Chubbs  going  to  the 
waxworks — so  filled  Aunt  Dickson's  mind  with  pleasant 
images  that  she  forgot  everything  else.  She  was  not  pre- 
vented by  Eva's  scandalised  remonstrances  from  offering 
Mrs.  Chubb  the  loan  of  her  best  black  bonnet  and  mantle 
for  the  occasion. 

"I  never  wear  them,"  she  declared.  ""Why  shouldn't 
Mrs.  Chubb?" 

"Because  she'd  get  taken  up,"  said  Eva  tartly.  "I  hear 
Londoners  aren't  as  sharp  as  us  Yorkshire  folks,  but  even 
they  could  see  she  'd  got  on  what  didn  't  belong  to  her. ' ' 

' '  Let  me  see  for  myself, ' '  said  Aunt  Dickson.  ' '  Tell  Mrs. 
Chubb  to  put  them  on  and  come  in." 

But  even  she  was  convinced  when  the  extinguished  Mrs. 
Chubb  appeared  with  her  sharp  nose-end  alone  protruding 
between  the  feathered  mass  above  and  the  cloak  below 
and  nothing  human  of  her  else  visible.  She  was  ushered 
in  by  Eva  who  said,  between  little  bursts  of  cackling  laugh- 
ter: "I  don't  mean  no  offence,  on'y  you'd  make  a  cat 


WINTER-TIME  267 

laugh,  Mrs.  Chubb,  you  would  indeed!  Oh,  dear!  I  never 
knew  as  a  nose-end  by  itself  could  look  so  savage.  Do  take 
'em  off  or  you'll  be  the  death  o'  me!" 

Eventually,  of  course,  Mrs.  Chubb  took  home  with  her 
both  bonnet  and  cloak,  which  were  to  be  altered  to  her 
dimensions,  and  Aunt  Dickson  went  to  bed,  solacing  a  long, 
wakeful  night  by  dreams  of  the  Chubbs  doing  the  thing  in 
style  and  enjoying  themselves  tremendously. 

After  that  nothing  seemed  to  happen  in  the  house  for  a 
long  time  but  daylight,  and  dark,  and  the  succession  of 
meals.  Pauline  worked  at  her  translation,  and  walked  on 
the  Ryeford  Road,  and  decorated  the  church  for  Christmas, 
and  then  the  New  Year  was  there.  But  through  all  the 
sounds  and  happenings  of  every  day  Pauline  listened  for 
some  word  of  Unwin,  and  she  thought  bitterly  how  soon  he 
seemed  to  be  forgotten.  People  mentioned  him  now  and 
then,  and  Miss  Amelia  wondered  tenderly  what  he  was  do- 
ing on  Christmas  Day,  poor  boy,  but  for  the  rest  he  seemed 
to  have  slipped  out  of  mind.  Mary  Carter  talked  of  noth- 
ing but  her  nursing,  and  Mrs.  Chubb 's  sole  topic  of  con- 
versation was  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  at  Madame  Tus- 
saud's,  which  had  impressed  itself  on  her  memory  for  ever, 
down  to  the  last  button  on  the  most  insignificant  murderer. 

Then  Miss  Amelia  fluttered  in  on  New  Year's  Day  with 
a  letter  from  Unwin  in  her  hand  and  the  information  that 
he  was  engaged  on  a  bar. 

' '  Nothing  to  do  with  the  law,  I  fear,  my  dear, ' '  she  mur- 
mured, leaning  towards  Aunt  Dickson.  ' '  But  that  is  how  I 
put  it  to  Mrs.  Delamere  just  now — the  bar — just  changing 
the  article  as  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  do,  and  she  must 
just  take  it  or  leave  it.  I  have  no  responsibility  in  the 
matter."  She  sighed.  "I  fear,  however,  that,  as  Harriet 
says,  it  is  only  too  like  poor  Mr.  Unwin  to  pick  up  unde- 
sirable connections  in  a  foreign  land.  It  would  be  so  just 
like  him,  poor  dear,  to  get  a  public  house  to  build  instead 
of  a  nice,  respectable  bar  such  as  I  believe  our  barristers 
eat  their  dinners  at  when  they  are  in  process  of  training." 


268  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Oh,  I  believe  the  public  houses  are  quite  palaces  out 
there, ' '  said  Pauline,  smiling.  ' '  I  expect  he  has  a  very  pay- 
ing job  and  may  consider  himself  lucky." 

But  within  herself  she  said:  "So  that  is  what  I  have 
brought  all  his  dreams  to!  I  who  love  him  better  than 
any  one  in  the  world."  For  her  love  had  enabled  her  to 
take  the  focus  of  another  person's  mind,  which  is  a  rare 
thing.  She  saw  Unwin's  failure  and  success  as  it  appeared 
to  his  own  soul — more  definitely  far  than  he  was  conscious 
of  seeing  it — and  she  knew  how  he  had  rejoiced  to  be  of 
the  great  company  that  built  Rheims  Cathedral  and  York 
Minster  and  all  those  poems  in  stone  which  are  not  the 
outcome  of  one  mind  alone,  like  poems  written  in  words, 
but  are  so  much  the  more  dearly  human  and  beautiful  for 
the  unknown  lives  spent  on  them.  Eough  comedy  in  gar- 
goyle and  carving,  a  soaring  loveliness  like  nothing  else 
made  with  hands  in  roof  and  pillar,  every  sort  of  man 
might  put  his  life  poem  singly  there,  and  find  it  again 
as  a  part  of  one  tender  harmony.  Unwin's  proper  work 
was  to  be  the  keeper  of  all  that,  himself  so  at  one  with 
those  whose  work  was  done,  that  he  could  never  make  a 
mistake — and  she  had  sent  him  out  to  build  drinking 
saloons. 

It  would  have  seemed  nothing  to  some  women,  but  Pau- 
line knew  the  value  of  a  dream,  and  that  which  she  had 
been  the  means  of  destroying  was  the  dream  of  Unwin's 
life. 

Perhaps  even  she  did  not  fully  understand  what  she 
had  done,  because  only  those  who  have  secretly  lived  for 
such  a  dream  can  know  how  life  changes  when  it  goes. 

A  little  later — or  so  it  seemed,  for  the  monotonous  weeks 
went  by  so  quickly — when  the  first  crocuses  were  showing 
in  the  little  prim  gardens  and  the  ladies  of  Wendlebury 
were  beginning  to  think  of  the  spring  cleaning,  Pauline 
met  Mrs.  Carter  in  the  street  and  heard  another  piece  of 
news  about  Unwin. 

' '  The  doctor  had  a  letter  yesterday — so  sad — Mr.  Unwin 


WINTER-TIME  269 

seems  to  be  very  ill.  The  sort  of  fever  they  get  out  there ; 
nothing  serious,  of  course,"  she  hastened  to  add,  because 
Pauline  was  unable  to  hide  the  blanching  of  her  lips.  ' '  We 
are  all  sorry.  Such  a  nice  young  fellow,"  babbled  the 
kind-hearted  doctor's  wife,  anxious  to  seem  as  if  she  had 
not  noticed.  "No  doubt  he  will  soon  be  all  right.  What  a 
delightful  day ! ' '  And  so  they  parted,  Mrs.  Carter  saying 
to  herself:  "Then  there  was  something  in  it  after  all!" 

Pauline  went  on  down  the  street,  did  her  shopping,  and 
returned  home,  saying  nothing  about  Unwin's  illness  to 
any  one.  She  felt  she  could  not  bear  to  discuss  it  in  all  its 
bearings  with  Aunt  Dickson.  But  before  long  Miss  Argle 
brought  the  tidings,  and  was  so  distressed  that  she  forgot 
to  take  away  any  cakes,  though  everything  was  conven- 
iently arranged  for  her  raiding  with  respectability,  as 
usual. 

"That  tiresome  basket-seller — no,  fortune-teller — I  knew 
it  was  something  itinerant!  I  wonder  if  she  is  with  him 
now?" 

And  Pauline  could  only  silently  re-echo  a  question  which 
had  been  asking  itself  in  her  own  mind  hundreds  of  times 
during  the  past  few  hours. 

But  when  Miss  Argle  had  gone,  Aunt  Dickson  sat  with 
her  big  face  puckered  into  those  folds  which  were  her  sign 
of  mental  disquiet,  and  she  glanced  at  Pauline  as  if  about 
to  speak,  then  changed  her  mind  and  finally  exclaimed — 

"I  wish  I  could  remember  exactly  what  I  said  to  Miss 
Argle!" 

Pauline  started  and  looked  round  from  the  window 
where  she  sat  sewing. 

"What  you  said  about  what?" 

"Why — about  Unwin  and  the  Dragon  at  Ryeford  .  .  . 
about  Unwin  drinking.  I  can't  remember.  It  is  so  long 
ago  now." 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Pauline.  "There's  no  use.  We 
'can't  do  anything  now,  you  know." 

Aunt  Dickson  sighed  and  resumed  her  knitting:  then 


270  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

she  heard  the  front  door  open,  and  welcomed  Eva  back 
from  an  errand  with  the  sort  of  pleasure  which  would  seem 
ridiculous  to  an  outsider  who  could  not  know  how  large  the 
little,  thin,  long-faced,  bright-eyed  woman  bulked  in  the 
life  of  that  quiet  household. 

"Well,  Eva?"  she  said,  eager  like  a  child  for  stir  and 
news. 

"Miss  Walker  can  do  your  bodice.  She  was  just  sitting 
down  to  her  tea.  She  gave  me  a  cup  on  with  her.  She 
was  in  low  spirits,"  said  Eva,  delivering  her  budget. 

' '  Has  Miss  Walker  heard  any  more  from  that  woman — 
the  fortune-teller,  you  know?"  said  Aunt  Dickson. 

"No.  That's  what  she  was  feeling  miserable  about,  I 
believe.  She  thought  such  a  lot  of  that  Miss  Lambert,  in 
spite  of  all.  Then  off  the  woman  goes,  and  never  a  word 
nor  nothing.  Miss  Walker  says  she  isn't  going  to  get  fond 
of  anybody  any  more.  It's  no  good.  They  only  give  you 
up  or  go  away  or  something  and  you  have  to  start  all  over 
again  with  a  fresh  'un.  She's  just  going  to  keep  herself 
to  herself  and  plod  on  and  not  bother  with  friends. ' '  Eva 
rubbed  her  nose.  "I  sometimes  think  that's  best  way 
meself,  don't  you,  Miss  Pauline?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pauline  sombrely. 

"No!"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  rousing  herself.  "No,  Eva, 
that  means  your  heart's  getting  old.  We  must  have  Miss 
Walker  here  to  work,  and  give  her  hot  tea-cakes. ' ' 

"Queer  way  to  mend  wounded  affection,"  said  Pauline. 

"Rubbish!  You  can  do  it  with  anything — from  a  bite 
of  apple  when  you're  seven,  to  a  kind  word  when  you're 
seventy.  You  only  provide  the  medium — it's  God  who 
does  the  rest. ' ' 

"Talking  of  mediums,"  said  Eva  in  a  low  tone,  "that 
Miss  Lambert  left  her  glass  ball  behind  her  that  she  used 
to  look  into  when  she  told  fortunes,  and  Miss  Walker  didn  't 
care  to  have  it  about — you  never  know — so  she  buried  it  in 
the  back  garden  and  read  the  commandments  over  it.  She 
feels  it's  all  safe  now." 


WINTER-TIME  2J1 

"But  if  Miss  Lambert  ever  came  back?"  said  Pauline. 

"She  never  will  come  back,"  said  Eva.  "Black  people 

and  black  ways  is  more  suited  to  hei "  She  broke  off, 

pursed  up  her  lips  tightly  and  retired,  evidently  sharing 
the  opinion  of  Wendlebury  that  Delia  was  with  Unwin. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BAD  NEWS 

MRS.  DELAMERE  and  Lord  Southwater  walked  to- 
gether through  Wendlebury  market  place,  and  each 
time  they  passed  a  large  plate-glass  window  the  lady 
glanced  aside  to  view  with  complacence  the  impressive  pic- 
ture they  made:  for  the  estimable  peer  was  that  morning 
at  his  best,  newly  come  from  an  important  conference  where 
he  had  represented  in  his  own  person  the  Churchmen  of 
England,  and  had  been  patted  on  the  back  by  Bishops  and 
even  Archbishops — if  such  a  term  could  be  applied  to  such 
approval. 

It  was  somewhere  near  the  fishmonger's  that  the  august 
pair  met  Pauline,  and  Mrs.  Delamere,  who  was  for  passing 
on  with  the  blank  graciousness  of  a  royal  salute,  felt  all 
those  former  suspicions  endured  during  that  horrible  half- 
hour  at  his  lordship 's  keyhole  return  in  full  force  when  she 
saw  that  gentleman  stop  short,  smile  in  pleased  recognition, 
and  hold  out  his  large  white  hand  to  Pauline. 

' '  How  do  you  do  ?  This  is  a  lovely  day,  though  dull.  I 
think  you  know  my  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Delamere?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere  tepidly:  then  in  an 
urgent  attempt  to  put  Pauline  at  once  in  her  proper  place, 
she  added:  "Miss  "Westcott  looks  after  an  invalid  neigh- 
bour .  .  .  invaluable  services  .  .  .  excellent  home  .  .  .  for- 
tunate thing  for  both,  I  am  sure.  You  no  doubt  remember 
her  face  in  connection  with  that  affair  of  Mr.  Unwin,  the 
architect. ' ' 

' '  I  remember  Miss  Westcott  without  the  need  of  any  con- 
necting link, ' '  said  Lord  Southwater,  with  solemn  gallantry 

272 


BAD  NEWS  273 

— such  regretful  gallantry  as  an  elderly  widower  peer,  who 
does  not  intend  to  marry  again,  may  feel  for  a  charming 
young  woman.  He  wished  vaguely  that  it  were  possible 
to  have  such  a  young  lady  in  the  house  as  a  sort  of  niece 
or  something,  and  envied  Aunt  Dickson;  but  realising  the 
impossibility  of  such  a  course  he  concluded  tamely:  "I 
hope  to  send  some  flowers,  if  I  may?  An  invalid  always 
likes  flowers." 

Mrs.  Delamere  flushed  deeply  beneath  her  sallow  skin. 
Flowers !  The  old  idiot  must  be  mad !  And  she  hastened  to 
provide  a  distraction  by  saying  bluntly  to  Pauline — 

"I  suppose  you  know  Mr.  Unwin  is  dangerously  ill? 
He  was  carried  on  board  the  ship  in  a  dangerous  condition 
and  is  not  expected  to  reach  home  alive.  Dr.  Carter  heard 
this  morning." 

And  this  time  the  intervention  was  successful,  for  Pau- 
line faltered  out  hastily — 

"So  sorry!  Good-morning!"  and  left  the  peer  and  the 
lady  planted  before  the  fishmonger's  marble  slab. 

But  when  she  came  out  again  into  the  sunny  market 
place,  where,  it  being  Market  Day,  the  stalls  were  already 
heaped  with  bunches  of  primroses,  she  did  not  know  where 
to  go  or  what  to  do.  The  intolerable  pricking  restlessness 
which  is  sometimes  a  part  of  sorrow  drove  her  out  along 
the  Ryeford  Road  and  then  back  again  into  the  crowds 
of  rosy-faced  country  people.  She  could  not  yet  go  back 
to  Aunt  Dickson,  telling  her  little  tale  of  meeting  Lord 
Southwater.  She  had  no  desire  to  confide  in  kind  Miss 
Amelia,  whom  she  met  and  passed  by  with  a  light  word  of 
greeting.  At  last  something  within  her,  deep  down,  whis- 
pered that  she  wanted  hairpins.  But  the  bathos  of  this  was 
apparent  even  to  herself,  and  she  determined  impatiently 
that  hairpins  did  not  matter.  How  could  they,  when  noth- 
ing mattered?  Still  she  found  herself  nearing  the  little 
shop,  and  standing  near  the  shabby  counter,  and  asking 
the  thin  spinster  for  those  with  a  notch  in  them.  Then — 
all  at  once — she  acknowledged  to  herself  what  had  driven 


'"274  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

her  here.  It  was  the  desire  to  speak  with  somebody  who 
really  loved  Unwin — the  same  feeling  which  makes  us  all 
find  a  deep  joy  in  talking  to  the  most  uninteresting  person 
-who  has  truly  loved  our  beloved  dead. 

"I'm  afraid  we  have  no  hairpins  to-day,"  said  the  shop- 
woman  in  a  cautious  voice.  "Is  there  anything  else?" 

Then  a  high,  querulous  voice  sounded  from  up  above,  and 
the  woman  ran  through  the  shop  to  the  bottom  of  some 
steep  stairs  with  a  hasty:  "Excuse  me!"  and  called: 
""Yes!  Yes!"  nervously,  in  answer  to  some  question  un- 
heard. ' '  Everything  she  wants  ?  Oh !  Yes.  Black  hooks. 
•Size  six!" 

Then  she  came  back,  very  flushed  and  disturbed,  to  say 
in  a  whisper :  ' '  My  mother  worries  about  the  business.  I 
daren't  let  her  know  we  are  out  of  hairpins,  as  she  would 
be  so  upset.  But  our  stock  has  not  been  replenished  .  .  . 
so  much  support  required  for  an  invalid.  .  .  .  Mr.  Unwin 
no  longer  with  us.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  trailed  into  silence, 
and  a  big  tear  fell  on  the  counter. 

"Please  give  me  six  packets  of  hooks,"  said  Pauline,  in 
a  loud  tone.  Then  she  added,  also  in  a  whisper :  "You've 
heard  how  ill  he  is?  They  had  to  carry  him  on  board  the 
steamer." 

"Yes.  Oh,  if  he  should  die!  Miss  Westcott— I  can't 
think  of  him  dead.  If  you  had  only  seen  him,  always  so 
full  of  fun,  in  that  room  of  ours  upstairs.  He  left  some 
of  his  books  behind.  You  can  come  and  see  them  if  you 
like."  She  wiped  her  eyes.  "Not  that  they're  what  you 
would  want  to  think  of  him  reading  if  you  knew  he  was 
nearing  his  latter  end.  But  I  can 't  believe  we  're  meant  to 
live  every  day  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  the  last,  for  all  the 
hymn  says,  can  you,  Miss  Westcott?" 

At  this  moment,  however,  another  customer  came  in;  so 
with  a  hasty:  "You  go  up  by  yourself.  First  room  on 
the  left, ' '  she  turned  to  face  again  the  little  burden  of  her 
day. 


BAD  NEWS  27$ 

' '  What 's  that  ? ' '  shrilled  the  old  woman  through  an  open 
door. 

''Lady  going  to  look  at  Mr.  Unwin's  room,"  called  her 
daughter  from  below. 

' '  What 's  the  use  ?  "We  can 't  take  anybody  with  me  like 
this,"  grumbled  the  old  woman. 

Then  Pauline  entered  the  room  and,  closing  the  door 
very  gently,  she  stood  in  the  middle  and  looked  round. 
The  bookshelf  was  full  of  gaily-bound  books ;  the  big  chair 
between  the  window  and  the  fire  still  bore  the  dent  made 
by  his  head,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her.  An  old  pipe  lay  on 
the  mantelshelf. 

On  the  wall  was  a  snapshot  of  him  with  a  tennis  racket 
in  his  hand,  laughing  at  some  one  near. 

She  put  her  head  down  in  the  place  where  his  had  been, 
and  kissed  the  shabby  leather,  all  her  love  and  sorrow  and 
desolation  sweeping  over  her  in  a  great  flood. 

' '  Maurice !  Maurice ! ' '  She  could  not  live  without  him. 
She  could  not  live  without  him. 

Then  she  heard  the  shopwoman's  footstep  on  the  stairs 
and  went  to  the  window,  pressing  her  forehead  against 
the  cool  pane. 

"It's  a  nice  room,  isn't  it?"  said  the  anaemic  spinster, 
panting  a  little.  "I  keep  it  dusted  every  day,  however 
busy  I  am.  I've  a  silly  feeling  that  he  may  want  it  all 
of  a  sudden  and  come  back,  though  I  know  he  never  will. 
But  it  isn't  what  you  know  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  Pauline,  and  they  rested  on  that.  "Well,. 
I  must  be  going.  Thank  you  for  letting  me  come  up." 

"There's  no  need  for  thanks,"  said  the  woman.  "The 
stairs  are  steep ;  mind  how  you  tread.  I  know  you  were 
a  friend  of  his." 

"Good-morning,"  said  Pauline,  going  out.  Then  she 
could  not  go  so,  and  paused  in  the  doorway.  "You  were 
his  friend  too." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  call  myself  that.    I  should  never  have 


276  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

called  myself  that,"  protested  the  shop-woman,  her  nose- 
end  flushing  pink  with  emotion. 

Thus  they  parted  without  saying  any  more ;  but  a  won- 
derful unspoken  conversation  had  taken  place  about  the 
sweetness  and  pain  of  love. 

During  the  next  two  or  three  weeks  Pauline  often  wished 
to  go  back  to  the  little  shop,  but  she  dared  not — some  deli- 
cacy of  the  soul  caused  her  to  feel  that  what  she  got  there 
was  taken  under  false  pretences,  and  was  somehow  an  in- 
jury to  the  woman  who  did  not  know  how  far  she  was 
responsible  for  Unwin's  departure. 

And,  indeed,  the  theory  that  hell  is  remorse  for  having 
injured  those  we  love  on  earth,  came  often  into  Pauline's 
mind  in  those  days;  and  she  realised  that  if  this  be  the 
case,  hell  does  not  wait  for  us  until  we  are  dead.  It  starts 
now. 

When  Miss  Amelia  tapped  at  the  window,  beckoning 
Pauline  in,  and  hurried  to  open  the  door,  murmuring: 
"Harriet's  in  there — keep  calm — but  I  had  to  let  you 
know,"  she  felt  as  if  cold  fingers  were  squeezing  her  very 
vitals — for  that  hell  is  cold. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

Then  Miss  Harriet  appeared  in  the  room  doorway,  and 
«aid  with  precision — 

"You  will  no  doubt  regret  to  hear  that  young  Mr.  Un- 
win  had  to  be  taken  off  the  ship  at  Teneriffe  on  his  journey 
home. ' ' 

Pauline's  dry  lips  would  not  let  a  sound  pass.  She 
moistened  them  with  her  tongue  and  whispered — 

"Dead?" 

"No!  No!"  cried  Miss  Amelia.  "Oh,  dear  child.  .  .  . 
No!  Only  ill." 

' '  Seriously  ill.  It  is  feared  he  may  not  recover.  A  bright 
young  life  if  somewhat  irresponsible,"  and  Miss  Harriet 
turned  back  into  the  room. 

"Dear  Pauline,"  whispered  Miss  Amelia,  putting  her 


BAD  NEWS  '  277 

soft  old  hand  on  the  girl's.  "Why,  your  hand  is  like  ice. 
Poor  child!  Poor  child!" 

Pauline  dragged  her  hand  abruptly  away. 

"Don't !  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  said,  and  hurried  out  into 
the  street. 

"Have  an  umbrella.  It's  raining!"  called  Miss  Amelia 
anxiously  from  the  doorstep. 

But  Pauline  was  already  half-way  down  the  street.  After 
a  while,  when  she  heard  Miss  Amelia's  door  close,  she 
slackened  speed  because  the  iron  railings  and  straight- 
fronted  houses  behind  the  mist  of  grey  rain  see^ned  to  be 
growing  darker  and  floating  away,  and  she  with  them.  She 
felt  herself  going — going.  Then  with  a  pang  of  almost  un- 
believable agony  she  came  back  and  found  herself  clutching 
an  iron  railing,  while  the  red-faced  landlady  of  the  Bowl- 
ing Green  Inn,  grasping  her  arm  on  the  other  side,  said 
reassuringly — 

' '  There !  There !  It 's  the  spring.  You  wouldn  't  think 
it  to  look  at  me  now,  but  I  was  as  white  as  chalk  before  I 
was  married  and  I  used  to  go  off  once  a  day  reg'ler  for  a 
time  at  the  change  of  the  year.  You  want  iron,  Miss  West- 
cott.  Or  getting  married  does  it.  On'y  we  can't  all  get 
married. ' ' 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  said  Pauline,  putting  her  hat 
straight.  "Thank  you  so  much.  The  spring  is  a  trying 
time."  And  she  forced  a  smile,  though  the  street  still 
seemed  dim  and  unsteady  and  the  landlady  rather  far  off. 

' '  There 's  a  lot  of  sickness  about, ' '  pursued  the  landlady. 
"Always  is  in  spring.  Even  our  Mary  Jane  seems  all  no- 
how— you'll  remember  our  jackdaw,  Mary  Jane?  And 
then  there's  poor  Mr.  Unwin  taken  ashore  somewhere  to 
die,  so  they  say.  Ay ;  they  talk  so  much  about  spring,  but 

I "  She  broke  off.  "Anyway,  it's  a  pity  about  Mr. 

Unwin.  People  might  say  what  they  liked  about  him,  but 
I  tell  you  one  thing.  Miss  Westcott;  if  pulling  our  Mary 
Jane  and  roasting  her  for  him  to  eat  would  cure  him,  I'd 
do  it,  and  I  can 't  say  no  more  than  that,  can  I  ? " 


278  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Then  this  interview  came  to  a  close,  but  the  Vicar,  Mrs. 
Carter,  Mary  Carter  by  letter  from  the  London  hospital 
where  she  was  training,  Aunt  Dickson,  Eva,  Miss  Argle — 
every  one,  it  seemed,  who  had  known  him,  took  occasion 
to  add  to  the  torment  which  Pauline  was  enduring. 

The  topic  overshadowed  even  the  Great  Bazaar  which 
was  looming  ahead,  with  Lord  Southwater  to  open  it  and 
fancy  costumes  for  the  stall-holders — or,  rather,  fancy 
heads,  being  powdered  hair  with  black  velvet  hats,  a 
compromise  insisted  on  by  Miss  Harriet,  who  declined 
abruptly  to  make  a  mountebank  of  herself  any  lower  down. 
And  when  Pauline  passed  the  open  kitchen  door  on  wash- 
ing morning,  she  heard  Mrs.  Chubb  say — • 

' '  Fever !  It  was  no  fever  that  young  Unwin  had.  It  was 
that  Miss  Lambert  done  him  in." 

' '  Mrs.  Chubb ! ' '  exclaimed  Eva,  aghast.  ' '  You  've  no  call 
to  say  a  thing  like  that,  even  if  she  is  a  bad  'un.  You 
could  be  had  up  for  saying  a  thing  like  that." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  with  a  sort  of  forlorn 
recklessness.  ' '  I  know  what  /  know,  and  you  don 't  know ! ' ' 

"Easy  enough  to  say  that!"  remarked  Eva,  her  eyes 
a-sparkle  with  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Chubb  opened  and  shut  her  mouth  in  her  fish-like 
way,  hesitated,  then  closed  her  lips  tightly  and  said: 
"That's  the  last.  "Where  is  them  clothes-pegs?"  So  Eva 
saw  that  further  questioning  would  be  of  no  avail  and 
consoled  herself  with  the  inward  comment:  "Silly  old 
owl,  she  doesn't  know  nothing.  What  can  she  know?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  ADVENTURE    OF   MRS.    CHUBB 

IT  was  morning  at  the  Chubbs ',  and  the  fire  burned  badly 
because  the  sticks  were  damp.  Mr.  Chubb  growled  in 
his  lair  above,  and  Mrs.  Chubb  started,  letting  the  brush 
fall.  She  wore  an  air  of  guilt  which  would  have  done  her 
no  discredit  had  Mr.  Chubb  been  buried  in  small  pieces 
beneath  the  hearthstone. 

Then  the  growl  became  fiercer — became  articulate. 
"Where's  my  shaving- water  1  You  can't  expect  the  Wen- 
dlebury  ladies  to  fancy  me  if  I  haven't  shaved." 

Mrs.  Chubb  clutched  a  post-card  from  the  table,  thrust  it 
into  her  blouse  and  dashed  some  hot  water  from  the  kettle 
into  a  large  mug ;  but  she  did  all  as  if  hunted  .  .  .  hunted 
and  yet  ready  to  turn  at  bay. 

"There!"  she  said;  then  she  added  bitterly:  "No  fear 
of  the  ladies  not  fancying  you — you  mud  safe  enough  let 
your  beard  grow." 

"Well,  you  needn't  cast  that  up  again  me,"  said  Chubb, 
eyeing  himself  with  approval  as  he  soaped.  "It's  your  liv- 
ing and  mine  to  have  the  cab  go  out,  isn't  it?"  Then  he 
turned  sharp  round.  "Whatever  do  you  keep  clutching 
hold  of  yourself  in  the  front  for?  I  can  see  you  in  the 
glass.  Have  you  got  spasms  again?" 

"No,"  faltered  Mrs.  Chubb,  going  quite  green.  "It's 
on'y  a  flea  .  .  .  them  chickens  next  door,"  she  added 
hastily. 

Then  she  went  downstairs,  locked  herself  in  the  wash- 
house,  and  taking  out  the  post-card  again  from  her  bosom 
she  stared  at  the  legend  there  inscribed. 

279 


280  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Meet  me  at  five-twenty  train  to-morrow,  Friday — D. 
LAMBERT.  ' ' 

No  writing  on  the  wall  could  have  been  for  Mrs.  Chubb 
more  fraught  with  Fate.  She  saw  the  letters  run  together 
— the  D  grow  toppling  and  tremendous — and  reason  fled 
from  its  throne,  leaving  mad,  groundless,  purposeless 
jealousy  there  instead. 

Chubb  should  not  have  that  post-card.  No  matter  if  he 
found  out  afterwards — no  matter  if  he  killed  her  for  it — 
he  should  not  have  that  post-card. 

She  unlocked  the  wash-house  door  with  hands  that  shook 
so  that  she  could  scarcely  turn  the  key,  ran  across  the 
kitchen  and  threw  the  offending  missive  on  the  fire  back. 

""What's  burning?"  sniffed  Chubb,  for  owing  to  the 
dull  fire  the  card  smouldered. 

"  A  bit  o '  paper.  Nothing, ' '  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  tightening 
her  lips. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  she  put  on  her  hat  and  went 
out. 

' '  What  are  you  going  for  ? ' ' 

"Tripe,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  knowing  his  objections  would 
thus  be  effectually  silenced. 

But  she  went  nowhere  near  the  tripe  shop ;  half  running 
and  half  walking,  she  covered  in  almost  no  time  the  dis- 
tance between  her  own  house  and  that  of  the  little  dress- 
maker where  Delia  had  been  used  to  lodge,  and  hammered 
so  impatiently  on  the  door  that  Miss  Walker  emerged  red- 
faced  with  annoyance,  saying,  before  she  could  stop  her- 
self: "You  tiresome  little "  Then  she  broke  off. 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  was  the  milk-boy  again.  He  is  in  such  a 
hurry." 

"So'm  I,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb  grimly,  and  she  gave  no 
further  greeting,  but  marched  straight  in  and  sat  down 
because  her  legs  would  not  support  her  any  longer. 

" Whatever 's  up?"  naturally  demanded  Miss  Walker. 
"I  do  hope  that  Chubb " 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB         281 

"It's  nothing  to  do  with  Chubb,"  interposed  his  wife — 
and  then  she  could  have  wept,  thinking  bitterly  how  she 
lied:  it  had  so  everything  to  do  with  Chubb.  "I — "  she 
saw  suddenly  even  in  her  jealous  fury  that  a  sane  reason 
must  be  given — "I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  lend  me  a  sleeve 
pattern  and  I'm  pushed  for  time." 

"You  seem  to  be,"  said  Miss  Walker.  However,  she 
fetched  the  required  pattern  and  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Chubb, 
who  remarked  in  a  most  curious  tone,  without  thanking  her 
for  her  trouble,  "You're  expecting  Miss  Lambert  to-day!" 

"  So  I  am ! ' '  cried  Miss  Walker,  greatly  surprised.  ' '  But 
how  on  earth  do  you  know?  She  only  wrote  to  me  this 
morning  saying  she  wanted  to  come.  And  I  might  have 
had  twenty  people  lodging  here  for  all  she  knew — but  she 
was  never  one  to  think  of  a  thing  like  that." 

"I  heard — by  a  side-wind,"  replied  Mrs.  Chubb.  She 
had  known ;  and  yet  the  confirmation  planted  a  fresh  blow. 

"Wonderful  how  you  do  hear  things  in  Wendlebury," 
said  Miss  Walker,  ushering  her  visitor  out.  "Well,  it's 
lucky  I  'm  not  going  out  to-day.  I  can  get  everything  nice 
for  her.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  come  in  to  help  for  a 
couple  of  hours?" 

"No.  Very  sorry,"  mumbled  Mrs.  Chubb,  hurrying 
through  the  door. 

"Going  out  somewhere?" 

"Yes." 

And  here  Mrs.  Chubb  felt  she  was  indeed  speaking  the 
truth,  though  how  her  proposed  outing  was  to  take  place 
she  could  not  imagine  at  present. 

When,  however,  she  reached  home  and  found  Chubb  at 
the  lane  end  with  the  cab,  she  said  to  herself  that  Provi- 
dence was  on  her  side  as  against  that  hussy,  and  h?r  course 
became  clear. 

' '  Here,  lass ! ' '  said  Chubb — as  she  knew  on  sight  of  him 
that  he  would  say — "I  want  you  to  stand  by  the  cab  for 
a  minute  while  I  go  across  to  speak  to  Miss  Argle  about 


282  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

the  manure.  She  wants  a  load  for  her  garden.  Old  mare '11 
stand  all  right." 

"Oh,  I  know  old  mare  can't  never  do  anything  wrong," 
said  Mrs.  Chubb,  very  emotional  and  overwrought.  "If 
you  nobbud  thought  as  much  of  your  wife  as  you  do 
of " 

But  Chubb  was  already  turning  the  corner,  and  Mrs. 
Chubb  stood  staring  at  Griselda.  After  all — could  she? 
Dared  she? 

Then  she  remembered  the  post-card :  ' '  Meet  me  .  .  .  D. 
LAMBERT.  ' '  The  intimacy  of  it !  The  open,  wicked  brazen- 
ness  of  this  creature,  whom  every  one  had  pictured  safe 
among  .the  heathen  Africans  where  she  so  properly  be- 
longed. No  doubt  she  had  let  the  poor  fellow  be  taken  off 
the  ship  all  by  himself  and  had  come  flaunting  home  with- 
out him,  smoking  cigarettes  all  the  way.  She  gave  Chubb 
cigarettes — some  had  turned  up  in  his  pocket  only  the  other 
day — he  had  kept  them  as  keepsakes.  A  wave  of  insensate 
jealousy  swept  over  Mrs.  Chubb  as  she  dashed  into  the 
house,  seized  Chubb 's  overcoat  and  an  old  hat  which  hung 
in  the  kitchen,  put  on  the  coat,  crushed  the  hat  on  her  head, 
dashed  out  of  the  house  again,  and  scrambled  upon  the  box. 

She  wrenched  her  knee  in  getting  up — no  matter.  It 
only  added  sting  and  vim  to  the  enterprise.  She  shook  the 
reins,  but  the  mare,  noting  a  difference,  refused  to  move. 
Then  Mrs.  Chubb  seized  the  whip,  the  outraged  Griselda 
felt  cut  after  cut  slashing  across  her  sacred  shoulders, 
and  the  stone  pavement  echoed  to  the  furious  driving  of 
Chubb 's  cab  through  the  morning  quiet  of  Wendlebury. 
Little  boys  ran  by  the  side  of  it — the  newspaper  girl  stood 
aghast — Aunt  Dickson,  early  up  and  gazing  from  her  win- 
dow, said,  "There's  Chubb  driving  like  mad:  I  wonder 
what  has  happened?"  while  the  jackdaw  in  the  Bowling 
Green  Inn  garden  near  the  end  of  the  town,  startled  by  the 
clatter,  repeated  its  two  phrases  over  and  over  again. 

Outside  the  town  the  wind  freshened  blowing  from  the 
distant  wolds,  and  at  a  turn  of  the  road  Mrs.  Chubb 's  hat 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB         283 

— or,  rather,  Mr.  Chubb 's — blew  over  the  hedge  and  away. 
But  Mrs.  Chubb  never  drew  rein  for  a  moment  and  con- 
tinued to  press  on,  the  cab  rocking  from  side  to  side,  and 
Griselda  lop-lopping  in  an  exhausted  canter. 

Once,  at  a  cross  road,  she  called  out  to  a  labourer :  ' '  This 
way  to  Southwater  Park?"  and  had  to  pause  because  the 
man  was  so  intrigued  by  her  greyish  hair  blowing  in  the 
wind,  and  Griselda 's  attitude  of  injured  exhaustion,  and 
Chubb 's  coat  which  engulfed  Mrs.  Chubb  to  the  nose-end, 
that  he  had  no  reply  ready.  At  last,  however,  he  answered 
in  the  affirmative  and  the  mad  race  started  again.  School 
was  leaving  as  she  went  shouting  and  whipping  and  urging 
the  now  hopeless  Griselda  through  the  village  of  South- 
water.  The  school-children  formed  an  imp-like  procession 
behind,  shouting,  yelling,  dancing,  calling  out:  "She's  off 
her  dot !  She 's  driving  to  'Sylum !  She 's  driving  to 
'Sylum!" 

But  they  fell  back,  staggered,  when  she  turned  into  the 
park  gates  which  the  passage  of  a  motor-car  had  left  mo- 
mentarily open.  The  bigger  boys  whispered  together  to  go 
and  tell  the  p'leece,  for  she  must  be  one  o'  them  'ere 
suffragettes  come  to  blow  up  Southwater  Hall.  The  lodge- 
keeper,  running  out,  followed  the  cab  up  the  drive,  garden- 
ers joined  the  chase,  and  Griseld,.,  winning  by  a  single 
length,  stood  trembling  in  every  limb  before  the  imposing 
portal  just  as  three  immaculate  Bracegirdles  of  Bracegirdle 
descended  from  their  car. 

Lord  Southwater,  advancing  bareheaded  down  the  steps 
to  greet  that  charming  terpsichorean  lady  whose  legs — as 
as  all  "VVendlebury  knew — were  as  charming  as  the  rest  of 
her,  and  he  stopped  silent,  seized  with  dignified  amaze  at 
the  spectacle  before  him. 

' '  James ! "  he  commanded ;  ' '  send  that  person  away. ' ' 

Mrs.  Chubb  was  off  her  box  in  an  instant  and  flung 
herself  into  the  midst  of  the  majestic  group.  But  once 
there,  she  could  only  open  and  shut  her  mouth,  fish-like, 
and  say  nothing.  The  onlookers  viewed  this  phenomenon 


284  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

with  silent  astonishment.  No  one — in  the  face  of  that  wild- 
haired,  wild-eyed  desperation — could  doubt  the  urgency  of 
Mrs.  Chubb 's  business  there. 

"My  good  woman "  began  Lord  South  water,  when 

James,  suddenly  grown  human,  said  explosively  from  be- 
hind:  "It's  Chubb 's  cab!" 

' '  Chubb 's  cab ! ' '  repeated  Lord  Southwater.  ' '  Then  who 
is  this?" 

' '  I — I  'm  the  owneress, ' '  faltered  Mrs.  Chubb.  ' '  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  your  lordship.  It's  an  urgent  matter." 

"It  seems  so,"  commented  Mrs.  Bracegirdle.  "Well, 
Lord  Southwater,  you  can't  refuse  to  speak  to  a  sort  of 
female  John  Gilpin,  can  you  ?  I  'm  sure  I  couldn  't. ' ' 

"This  is  preposterous,"  said  Lord  Soutnwater. 

Mrs.  Chubb  saw  her  chance  disappearing,  and  the  fine 
ladies  and  the  fine  servants  again  became  as  nothing  to 
her. 

"It's  a  family  matter,"  she  urged.  "I'd  speak  up  now 
before  these  ladies  on'y  I'm  never  one  for  washing  your 
dirty  linen  in  public." 

"I  am  not  aware "  began  Lord  Southwater  again; 

and  then  he  remembered  that  brother  of  his  who  was 
probably  dead  somewhere  in  Australia,  and  stopped  short; 
for,  after  all,  he  had  a  soiled  family  shirt  like  all  the  rest. 

' '  Oh,  I  '11  say  it  now.  I  don 't  mind ! ' '  flung  out  the  des- 
perate Mrs.  Chubb.  "But  have  that  hussy  back  in  Wen- 
dlebury  Hypnotising  people's  husbands,  and  going  on  as 
she  does,  I  neither  can  nor  will.  Not  if  I'm  to  be  hung 
for  it." 

"Hussy!"  said  Mrs.  Bracegirdle.  "This  sounds  inter- 
esting!" Then,  as  she  feared  nothing  on  earth,  not  even 
Lord  Southwater,  she  added  archly,  shaking  a  long,  mani- 
cured finger:  "Another  illusion  gone!  I  always  did  be- 
lieve in  your — er — rectitude,  Lord  Southwater." 

That  peer's  large  pink  face  turned  a  deep  tomato  red  as 
he  said  with  almost  supernatural  dignity — 

"Pray  accompany  me  to  the  library,  Mrs. — er — Chubb." 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB         285 

Then  to  his  guests:  "Perhaps  you  will  kindly  excuse  me 
.  .  .  this  poor  woman  ...  I  often  have  strange  petitions. ' ' 

"Mayn't  we  come  too?"  said  the  incorrigible  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle.  "The  tact  and  judgment  of  another  woman  ..." 

Lord  Southwater,  pretending  not  to  hear,  stalked  be- 
fore Mrs.  Chubb  across  the  hall. 

' '  And  now, ' '  he  said,  closing  the  door,  ' '  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  your  errand  in  as  few  words  as  possible." 

"I  was  charing  at  Miss  Walker's.  She's  a  dressmaker 
in  "Wendlebury, "  panted  Mrs.  Chubb,  with  her  hand  on 
her  heart.  "She's  a  very  nice  lady,  Miss  Walker  is." 

' '  I  presume  you  did  not  come  here  to  tell  me  that, ' '  said 
Lord  Southwater. 

"No — that  is — Miss  Lambert  used  to  lodge  with  Miss 
Walker,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chubb,  with  a  wary  eye  on  Lord 
Southwater,  ready  to  spring  at  his  coat-tails  and  hold  him 
if  necessary,  though  he  fortunately  did  not  know  this. 
"Miss  Lambert — her  as  told  fortunes " 

"Ah!"  said  Lord  Southwater.  "Has  she  been  stealing 
anything?  I  know  those  vagrants  sometimes " 

"Vagrant!"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "She  had  my  husband 
driving  her  out  in  a  cab  all  afternoon  most  days  in  the 
week.  She  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Unwin  's.  There  was  noth- 
ing vagrant  about  her." 

"Then  what?"  began  Lord  Southwater. 

"Your  lordship,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  "I  haven't  come  to 
you  for  no  light  matter.  She  nypotised  your  brother,  Mr. 
Delamere,  I  don't  doubt,  and  he  died.  She  nypnotised 
Mr.  Unwin,  just  the  same,  and  he's  dying.  She  part  nypo- 
tised my  Chubb,  and  now  she's  coming  back  to  finish  him 
off.  And  I  won't  have  it.  If  I'm  hung  for  it,  I  won't!" 

' '  You  speak  of  my  brother, ' '  said  Lord  Southwater,  look- 
ing startled  and  uneasy.  "What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
He  has  been  long  away  from  England." 

"May  be  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb,  drawing  in  her  horns. 
"I  on'y  know  what  happened.  And  you're  a  powerful 
man  about  here.  You  got  them  other  queer  women  turned 


286  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

out  o'  that  house  in  Bowling  Green  Terrace.  I  want  you 
to  stop  Miss  Lambert  from  coming  back  to  Wendlebury. " 

"How  do  you  know  Miss  Lambert  was  acquainted 
with  my  brother?"  said  Lord  South  water. 

"Oh!  Just  a  chance.  I  happened  to  find  out,"  said 
Mrs.  Chubb. 

' '  But  how  ? ' '  persisted  Lord  Southwater,  and  the  solemn 
room,  the  deep,  soft  carpets,  and  his  lordship's  judicial  air 
caused  poor  Mrs.  Chubb  to  falter  out,  against  all  her  wiser 
judgment — 

"I  read  some  of  Miss  Lambert's  letters  one  day  when  I 
was  doing  her  room.  She  left  her  keys  and  everything 
about.  She  was  like  that. ' ' 

Lord  Southwater  nearly  choked  with  the  intolerable  in- 
dignity of  the  situation,  but  he  felt  forced  to  demand — 

"Did  you  gather  that  they  were  friends?" 

"Yes.  I  must  say  he  wrote  a  beautiful  letter  when  he 
was  dying.  You  could  see  he  was  fond  on  her.  Though 
no  doubt  it  was  all  nypotising.  That 's  why  I  want  you  to 
stop  her  from  coming  back." 

But  though  this  was  the  point  to  which  Mrs.  Chubb 's 
mind  clung,  Lord  Southwater  no  longer  thought  of  it. 

"Poor  Dick!  Then  he  is  really  gone.  Poor  Dick!" 
and  it  was  a  minute  or  two  before  he  added  with  a  sigh : 
"Then  I  must  see  this  Miss  Lambert." 

"See  her!"  cried  Mrs.  Chubb,  jumping  up  and  spread- 
ing out  her  arms  as  if  he  were  starting  at  that  moment. 
"Now,  don't  you!  Don't  you!  You're  a  big  man,  and  a 
lord,  but  you're  a  man — if  you'll  excuse  me  saying  so — 
all  the  same.  And  if  she  can  get  at  you,  she'll  nypotise 
you  too.  She  will,  indeed." 

"No,  no,"  said  Lord  Southwater,  abstractedly,  opening 
the  door  and  speaking  to  some  one  outside. 

"You  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  Chubb,"  urged  Mrs. 
Chubb,  as  the  door  closed  again,  wringing  her  hands  at 
her  own  impotence.  "To  see  him  sitting  so  noble  on  his 
box  you  never  would  think — and  yet " 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB         287 

Lord  Southwater  opened  the  door  again. 

"I  have  ordered  the  dog-cart  round  to  take  you  back," 
he  said.  "Your  cab  will  follow  when  the  horse  is  suffi- 
ciently rested.  I  must  beg  of  you  not  to  mention  this 
matter  to  any  one  until  I  have  seen  you  once  more. ' ' 

"Do  you  think  I  want  to  mention  it,  sir?"  distractedly 
cried  Mrs.  Chubb.  "I've  kep'  it  to  myself  all  this  time. 
I'll  go  on  keeping  it  to  myself  for  ever,  if  you'll  only  clear 
her  out  of  "Wendlebury. " 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  arrange  that,"  said  Lord 
Southwater;  then  he  conducted  Mrs.  Chubb,  wild-haired, 
frightened  to  death  at  what  she  had  done,  and  yet  reck- 
lessly triumphant,  to  the  waiting  dog-cart. 

The  smart  groom  eyed  his  charge  with  an  injured  sur- 
prise which  not  even  a  hereditary  training  in  professional 
woodenness  could  conceal.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  dis- 
dainful, saying  nothing,  as  the  dog-cart  bowled  swiftly 
along.  At  last  he  said:  "You  seem  to  have  lost  your 
hat!" 

' '  Yes, ' '  replied  Mrs.  Chubb  to  this  self-evident  fact,  and 
left  it  at  that. 

"Your  old  mare  was  about  done,"  he  continued.  "You 
must  have  brought  her  along  in  a  hurry." 

"I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 

' '  Urgent  errand,  I  s  'pose  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 

"Very  urgent?"  he  pursued. 

"Very,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb. 

And  so,  having  thrown  aside  dignity  for  nothing,  he 
resumed  it  again ;  thus  the  oddly  assorted  pair  continued 
their  way  in  silence  until  the  sight  of  Chubb  standing  at 
the  cross  roads  made  Mrs.  Chubb  turn  very  white,  open 
her  mouth,  shut  it  again,  and  gaze  in  speechless  agony  at 
the  groom. 

"What's  up?"  he  said. 

"That's  my  husband,"  she  said  huskily.  "Let  me  get 
down. ' ' 


288  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

He  pulled  up  and  let  her  alight.  Chubb,  meanwhile, 
with  a  sort  of  bellow  began  to  run  towards  her. 

"Seems  cross — your  old  man,"  said  the  groom.  "No 
wonder."  Then  something  in  Mrs.  Chubb 's  face  appealed 
to  the  manhood  in  him.  "I'll  stop  a  minute  and  see  he 
doesn't  knock  you  about,  if  you  like." 

"Knock  me  about!"  retorted  Mrs.  Chubb,  throwing  up 
her  head ;  and  while  her  teeth  chattered  so  that  she  could 
scarcely  articulate,  she  added:  "That's  just  his  way  of 
showing  he 's  pleased  to  see  me.  He 's  the  best  and  kindest 
and  mildest  man  what  ever  lived.  He  woulcln  't  lay  a  finger 
on  me  to  save  himself  from  the  gallers!" 

The  groom  eyed  the  big,  red-faced  man  coming  on  like 
a  mad  bull  and  muttered  doubtfully — 

"Well — nothing  to  be  gained  by  interfering  between 
husband  and  wife,  I  s'pose. " 

And  with  that  he  turned  round  and  drove  slowly  off, 
looking  round  every  now  and  then  to  see  what  was  hap- 
pening. 

"Wha-yer-mean-by-er-er-er-er "  This  booming,  con- 
fused sound  came  along  the  white  lane  and  over  the  just- 
springing  hedgerows. 

Mrs.  Chubb  stood  quite  still  because  her  legs  would  not 
carry  her  one  inch  further.  She  met  Chubb 's  onslaught 
with  the  strange  quiet  of  utter  desperation. 

"The  cab  had  to  go  to  Southwater — in  a  hurry — you 
wasn't  there — I  took  it,"  she  said,  in  a  perfectly  toneless 
voice. 

"Who  fetched  it?  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me?" 
shouted  Chubb;  but  he  was  rather  taken  aback  by  her 
quietude. 

"The  cab  had  to  go — in  a  hurry — I  took  it,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Chubb,  scarcely  moving  her  lips. 

"Like  that!"  said  Chubb,  pointing  at  her  dishevelled 
head.  "Oh,  you're  mad!  You're  mad!  You're  like  your 
old  aunt  that  used  to  think  she  had  a  squirrel  inside  of  her 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB         289 

and  fed  it  with  nuts."  He  paused,  breathing  heavily. 
"You  must  be  mad.  Where's  the  cab  now?" 

"They  ..."  Mrs.  Chubb  opened  and  shut  her  mouth, 
making  no  further  sound. 

"Gosh!"  cried  the  justly  exasperated  Chubb;  "if  this 
doesn't  beat  all!  She  can't  even  tell  me  where  she's  put 
the  cab!" 

"They're  bringing  it — later  in  the  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Chubb ;  and  she  felt  a  sudden  joy  sweep  over  her  because 
whatever  happened  the  cab  could  not  meet  Delia  by  the 
five  o'clock  train. 

' '  "Well,  you  've  done  a  pretty  thing ! ' '  said  Chubb.  ' '  Miss 
Walker,  the  dressmaker,  told  me  to  meet  Miss  Lambert  by 
the  five  o'clock  train,  and  I've  had  to  order  a  cab  from 
the  Red  Lion.  Queer  her  not  letting  me  know.  I  can't 
understand  it.  I  should  have  thought  she'd  be  sure  to 
drop  me  a  card!" 

"P'raps  it  was  lost  in  the  post — lots  of  letters  is,"  said 
Mrs.  Chubb,  beginning  to  tremble  again. 

"Maybe,"  said  Chubb.  "Anyway,  I  couldn't  have  met 
her  because  of  your  tomfoolery,  so  it's  all  for  the  best." 

And  at  this  Mrs.  Chubb  began  to  weep  quietly,  like  a 
person  who  has  just  come  forth  from  some  great  danger  and 
can  scarcely  yet  believe  himself  safe. 

"Let's  go  round  by  the  tripe  shop,"  she  sobbed,  mop- 
ping her  eyes.  "I  didn't  get  none  this  morning,  and  I 
want  a  bit  of  something  extra  good  for  your  supper." 

Thus  did  Mrs.  Chubb  prepare  to  lay  her  evening  thank- 
offering  upon  love's  altar;  and  as  she  and  Chubb  emerged 
from  the  shop  together  after  choosing  with  care  the  most 
succulent  bits,  Chubb  said — 

"You  may  walk  home  by  yourself  the  rest  of  the  way. 
I  can't  walk  with  a  woman  that  hasn't  a  hat  on  and  looks 
a  regular  figure  o'  fun.  I  have  my  place  to  keep  up  in 
Wendlebury.  "What  would  any  of  the  ladies  say  if  they  was 
to  meet  me?  I'll  go  by  market  place  and  you  go  round 
back  way. ' ' 


290  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Chubb.  "It's  on'y  natural,  so 
much  thought  on  as  you  are.  You  couldn't  do  silly  things 
like  what  I  do  if  you  was  to  try  ever  so.*' 

"I  couldn't,"  responded  Chubb,  mollified,  however,  by 
his  wife 's  flattery.  ' '  I  allus  had  more  gumption  than  most 
folks.  My  mother  used  to  tell  me  that.  It  would  take  a 
clever  person  to  deceive  me.  So  mind  never  you  try  it  on, 
or  it  '11  be  worse  for  you. ' ' 

"N-no,"  quavered  Mrs.  Chubb.  Then,  to  her  intense  re- 
lief, Pauline  rounded  the  corner. 

' '  Good  day, ' '  began  Pauline,  but  realising  the  distraught 
and  unusual  appearance  of  Mrs.  Chubb,  she  added  quickly, 
"I  hope  there  has  not  been  an  accident?  What  is  the 
matter?" 

"Nothing;  merely  lost  her  hat,"  said  Chubb,  taking  on 
his  shoulders  the  honour  of  the  family.  "Any  lady  might 
lose  her  hat!  Draught  at  a  street  corner.  Passing  wag- 
gon. There  it  goes!"  He  turned  upon  his  wife,  deter- 
mined that  his  words  should  be  true.  "That's  how  yours 
went,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes;  there  did  seem  a  strong  draught,"  said  Mrs. 
Chubb,  with  convincing  sincerity,  remembering  that  head- 
long flight.  Then  some  subtle  desire  to  test  Pauline's 
feeling  about  Delia  made  her  add,  glancing  up  with  her 
foolish,  vacant  look:  "  Chubb 's  a  bit  bothered.  He  thinks 
Miss  Lambert's  card  has  been  lost  in  the  post.  Miss  Lam- 
bert's coming  back  to  Wendlebury  by  the  five  train!" 

"What!"  said  Pauline,  flushing  crimson  from  chin  to 
forehead.  ' '  She 's  in  England  ? ' ' 

"She's  coming  to  Wendlebury  by  the  five  train,"  re- 
peated Mrs.  Chubb. 

And  somehow  Chubb,  though  he  loomed  large  and  spoke 
of  Miss  Walker,  was  as  though  he  were  not  there.  The 
real,  vital  sense  of  what  passed,  leapt  between  Mrs.  Chubb 
and  Pauline  like  the  flashing  of  some  electric  medium. 
When  it  was  over,  they  both  knew  that  the  other  regarded 
Delia  as  the  enemy:  for  they  had  gone  down  to  the  deep 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MRS.  CHUBB         291 

core  of  things  where  women  are  the  same.  Pauline,  how- 
ever, only  said  smoothly — 

"You  will  be  glad  to  see  Miss  Lambert  back,  Mrs. 
Chubb.  She  was  such  a  splendid  customer." 

And  Chubb  replied  for  his  wife — 

"Yes:  not  too  many  of  them  knocking  about,  Miss." 

But  as  Pauline  turned  away  her  senses  steadied  from 
the  shock  and  her  whole  being  suddenly  became  flooded 
with  light.  A  new  thought  shone  out  across  her  disturbed 
soul  like  the  tremendous  ray  of  a  lighthouse  on  a  stormy 
sea. 

If  Delia  were  coming  back  to  "Wendlebury  she  could  not 
be  with  Unwin. 

Mrs.  Chubb,  glancing  at  that  illuminated  face,  lost  all 
her  bearings.  With  the  tripe  tightly  pressed  to  her  side, 
she  watched  Pauline's  elastic  gait. 

Miss  Lambert  had  made  a  fool  of  Miss  Westcott  's  young 
man.  She  was  coming  back  to  Wendlebury.  What  in  the 
whole  sphere  of  human  things  was  there  to  look  pleased 
about  in  such  occurrences  ?  Then  Chubb  gave  her  a  nudge, 
and  said  fiercely  in  her  ear — 

' '  What  are  you  stopping  at  ?  Get  home  with  you — figger 
o'  fun!  If  you  could  nobbud  see  yourself!  I  can't  think 
how  ever  you  come  to  do  such  a  tomfool  trick. ' ' 

And  it  was  not  just  Mrs.  Chubb  who  answered,  it  was  a 
thousand  generations  of  Mrs.  Chubbs,  evading  by  words 
aeons  of  Mr.  Chubbs  with  clenched  fist — the  last  kick  as  it 
were,  of  a  vanishing  attitude  in  civilised  Europe. 

"Chubby,"  she  said,  gazing  at  him  in  simple  adoration. 
"I  don't  know  how  it  is  as  I  haven't  got  cleverer  with  be- 
ing with  you." 

"No,"  said  Chubb;  "no,  nor  I  don't." 

And  upon  that  they  parted,  taking  separate  roads  home. 

As  Chubb  plodded  along  he  reflected  that  his  wife  was 
a  poor,  silly  thing,  and  that  a  man  like  him  ought  to  have 
had  a  clever  woman,  while  all  the  time  his  subconscious 
self  was  soothed  and  gratified  by  the  subtle  incense  which 


292  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

Mrs.  Chubb 's  inferiority  offered  to  his  vanity.  "When  he 
had  eaten  the  tripe  he  was  in  a  mood  of  god-like  forgive- 
ness, though  he  only  said — 

"There  was  too  much  onion  with  that  tripe!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET 

THE  news  of  Delia's  return  circulated  through  Wen- 
dlebury  with  the  incredible  swiftness  of  rumour  in 
an  Eastern  bazaar — that  most  wonderful  gossip  shop  in 
the  world  which  has  influenced  the  destiny  of  nations — 
where  the  Power  of  Gossip  becomes,  as  it  were,  visible, 
openly  taking  its  strange  and  terrible  place  in  the  scheme 
of  human  life. 

Compared  with  that,  the  gentle  murmurings  of  the 
ladies  of  Wendlebury  seem  almost  ridiculous,  but  when 
Miss  Amelia  came  in,  half -crying,  to  say  to  her  sister: 
"I  hear  poor  young  Unwin  is  dying  alone  out  there. 
If  he  had  got  that  post  with  Lord  Southwater  this  would 
never  have  happened,"  it  could  be  seen  that  even  in  little 
English  Wendlebury  gossip  held  the  powers  of  life  and 
death. 

"He  might  have  eaten  tinned  lobster  at  home  and  died 
of  ptomaine  poisoning,"  snapped  Miss  Harriet;  not  be- 
cause she  thought  so,  but  because  she  was  sorry  herself 
and  that  always  made  her  irritable. 

"And  Miss  Lambert  has  come  back! — not  that  I  know 
any  real  harm  of  her. — It  looks  as  if  she  never  did  run 
away  with  him,  and  we  did  him  such  an  injustice,  and 
the  poor  boy  dying  all  alone  over  there,"  wept  Miss 
Amelia.  "Oh  dear!  I'll  never  say  anything  but  nice 
things  about  people  ever  any  more  so  long  as  I  live." 

"Then  you  will  no  longer  be  a  human  being,  Amelia," 
said  Miss  Harriet,  "but  an  unpleasant  machine  for  the 

293 


294  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

distillation  of  artificial  honey,  and  as  such  to  be  avoided 
by  all  reasonable  persons."  She  paused,  and  added  ener- 
getically: "Have  you  forgotten  Mrs.  Wareham,  who 
used  to  call  even  the  pigs  pretty  dears,  for  fear  she  should 
get  out  of  practice?  If  you  are  going  to  be  like  that, 
Amelia,  you  and  I  part  company." 

"But  she  did  it  to  be  popular,  not  because  she  thought 
nice  things,  and  that  somehow  shone  through,"  said  Miss 
Amelia.  "I'm  going  to  think  nothing  but  nice  things." 
Then  she  removed  the  handkerchief  at  the  sound  of  pass- 
ing wheels.  "There's  Lord  Southwater.  I  wonder  how 
he  feels,  cocked  up  there  looking  as  pleased  as  pleased 
with  himself  and  thinking  everything  he  does  is  right  be- 
cause he  does  it,  and  Mrs.  Delamere  showing  her  teeth 
like  an  advertisement  for  a  ..."  She  broke  off  abruptly, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  lips.  "  Oh !  how  can  you  keep  on 
saying  nasty  things  just  after  talking  as  I  did?  Oh, 
dear!" 

And  she  went  upstairs,  overwhelmed  by  the  perplexities 
of  human  existence. 

But  after  a  while  the  faded,  spacious  quiet  of  her  room 
began  to  quiet  her  agitation,  and  she  wished  very  much 
that  she  could  do  something  for  Unwin,  who  had  been  so 
good  to  her,  and  whom  her  simple  mind  pictured  alone 
among  heathen  strangers,  not  realising  that  Teneriffe  is 
a  great  deal  more  advanced  than  "Wendlebury,  and  far 
away  from  the  equator.  Her  glance  fell  upon  the  sam- 
pler worked  by  her  mother  with  little  busy  fingers  so  long 
ago,  and  she  read  for  the  ten-thousandth  time  the  four 
lines  in  black  cross-stitch — 

"The  loss  of  wealth  is  much, 
The  loss  of  time  is  more ; 
The  loss  of  faith  is  such 
As  no  man  can  restore." 


LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET     295 

That  reminded  her  of  the  only  thing  she  could  do  for 
Unwin;  so  she  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  though  it  was  the 
middle  of  the  morning,  and  the  action  at  that  unusual 
hour  gave  her  an  odd  feeling,  like  getting  dressed  in  the 
middle  of  the  night. 

But  mousey-haired,  simple  Miss  Amelia — with  hsr  sen- 
sation of  doing  something  cold  and  queer,  and  her  mud- 
dled petitions  to  her  Maker — did  yet  indeed  possess  at 
that  moment  the  greatest  treasure  of  mankind,  the  loss 
of  which  no  man  can  restore  or  pay  for,  as  those  perhaps 
know  best  who  have  once  lost  it. 

Then  she  put  on  her  coat  and  hat  again,  starting  to 
go  and  see  Pauline.  But  half-way  across  the  room  she 
turned  back  and  took  them  off  once  more.  Something 
deep  down  in  her  heart — some  far  echo  of  that  spoilt  love 
of  her  youth — told  her  she  must  do  the  harder  thing  and 
keep  away  from  the  girl  she  desired  so  ardently  to  help. 
She  knew  that  Pauline's  sorrow  and  suspense  now  was 
of  the  order  which  can  only  be  helped  by  silence. 

Lord  Southwater  meanwhile  deposited  Mrs.  Delamere 
at  her  residence,  and  in  spite  of  her  kind  desire  to  accom- 
pany him  he  made  it  clear  that  he  had  business  which  he 
preferred  to  transact  alone.  So  the  landlady  of  the  Bowl- 
ing Green  Inn  caught  an  astonished  glimpse  of  him  pro- 
ceeding majestically  on  foot  past  her  back  premises  while 
she  was  feeding  Mary  Jane  the  jackdaw,  and  she  nearly 
ended  that  excellent  fowl's  career  for  ever  by  smothering 
its  second  and  more  profane  phrase  with  her  apron. 

"Can  you  direct  me  to  the  house  of  Miss  Walker  the 
dressmaker?"  said  his  lordship.  "I  am  not  well  ac- 
quainted with  this  part  of  the  town." 

"I'll  come  with  you,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  darting 
forth,  intensely  curious  to  see  what  Lord  Southwater 
could  possibly  want  with  a  dressmaker.  "There — that 
door  there — that  queer-looking  woman  has  just  opened 
it." 

For  Delia,  in  an  old  blue  tea-gown  and  with  disordered 


296  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

hair,    had    just   stepped    out    to   look    for   the    newsboy. 

"Ah!  Thank  you,"  said  his  lordship;  and  in  that  mo- 
ment he  thought  he  knew  all  there  was  to  know  about 
Delia.  "Ahem!  May  I  presume  I  am  speaking  to  Miss 
Lambert?"  he  said,  advancing  with  an  air  which  pre- 
vented even  the  Bowling  Green  landlady — who  was  a  per- 
son of  riotous  imagination — from  thinking  that  he  had 
come  to  have  his  fortune  told. 

Delia  hesitated  for  a  second,  looking  at  him  with  an 
odd,  whimsical  expression  which  he  could  not  at  all  un- 
derstand, but  which  he  felt  to  be  most  unbecoming.  She 
even  offensively  allowed  her  loose  garment  to  remain  un- 
buttoned at  the  throat  and  her  hair  to  stray  wildly  over 
her  forehead  with  no  nervous  attempt  whatever  to  fit  her- 
self for  the  Presence:  and  it  was  to  Lord  Southwater  as 
if  she  had  slapped  his  large,  pink  face.  He  felt  once  more 
that  poor  Dick  was  a  trouble  and  a  disgrace,  as  he  had 
always  been,  and  the  feeble  spirit  of  brotherly  sentiment 
which  had  animated  him  on  the  way  there  died  down.  But 
it  was  his  duty  to  find  out  how  and  when  his  brother  died, 
and  for  his  own  sake  he  must  do  his  duty.  No  sacrifice 
was  too  great  to  preserve  his  colossal  self-respect.  So  he 
repeated:  "Miss  Delia  Lambert,  I  believe?  Will  you  al- 
low me  to  step  in  for  a  few  moments  ? ' ' 

"Very  well,"  said  Delia.  "You  can  come  in  if  you 
like.  Sit  down." 

But  he  remained  standing  before  the  mantelpiece,  one 
foot  a  little  in  advance,  gloves  in  hand.  Delia,  tall,  lean, 
vivid,  but  dimmed  with  untidiness  and  fatigue,  sat  oppo- 
site to  him. 

"I  have  sought  this  interview  with  reference  to  my 
brother,"  he  said  at  once,  solemnly,  being  incapable  of 
subtlety;  and  had  Delia  never  known  Delamere,  and  been 
the  woman  Lord  Southwater  thought  her,  she  could  have 
made  capital  enough  out  of  that  phrase  alone  as  he  said  it. 
But  she  just  looked  into  his  honest,  self-righteous  face  and 
said  quietly — 


LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET     297 

"Yes?" 

"A  person "  Lord  South  water  choked  a  little, 

thinking  of  Mrs.  Chubb — even  in  death  Dick  brought 
him  into  low  company.  "I  am  told  that  you  were  very 
friendly  with  my  brother.  I  noted  that  he  no  longer  drew 
his  remittance  from  the  bank,  but  I  argued  that  he  might 
have  fallen  on  good  times — made  a  fortune — one  never 
knows." 

"Especially  when  one  doesn't  particularly  want  to 
know,"  said  Delia,  still  very  quietly,  but  with  her  lack- 
lustre expression  quickening. 

"You  are  evidently  aware  that  circumstances  divided 
my  brother  from  his  family,"  said  Lord  Southwater.  ""We 
will  leave  it  at  that,  if  you  please.  Briefly,  my  errand  is 
to  find  out  the  time  and  place  of  his  death." 

"No,"  said  Delia,  "I  think  not.  You  don't  care.  You 
only  want  to  know  because  you  feel  in  the  wrong  position. 
I  am  not  inclined  to  betray  his  confidence  in  order  to  ease 
your  mind  of  that."  She  began  to  breathe  quickly,  her 
eyes  shone,  and  even  through  Lord  Southwater 's  outraged 
annoyance  the  thought  flashed :  "  She  may  have  been 
good-looking;  it  is  not  so  absolutely  incomprehensible, 
after  all."  Aloud  he  said,  incredulous — 

"But  you  cannot  refuse  to  give  this  information  to  me 
— the  man's  brother?" 

"Yes,  I  can.     I  can  and  will,"  said  Delia. 

"Then,"  said  Lord  Southwater,  "it  remains  only  for 
me  to  return  to  my  first  informant.  But  I  hoped  to  have 
spared  my  brother's  memory.  That,  I  assure  you,  was 
my  only  motive." 

And  Delia,  staring  at  him,  began  to  laugh  in  spite  of 
her  love  and  sorrow  and  anger.  He  seemed  so  funny  to 
her,  standing  there,  pompously  believing  what  he  said. 

"Who  was  your  informant?"  she  asked. 

"That  I  decline  to  say.  I  was  told  in  confidence.  I 
never  betray  a  confidence,"  said  Lord  Southwater. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Delia.     "Only  I  thought  if  it 


298  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

were  any  one  who  really  did  know  anything  I  might  give 
you  the  information  you  desire.  The  less  talk  there  is 
the  better,  of  course." 

Lord  Southwater  walked  to  the  window,  agitated. 
There  was  something  about  this  young  woman  ...  a 
power  .  .  .  After  a  few  moments  he  came  back  to  the 
mantelpiece,  coughed  once  more,  and  acknowledged,  with 
reddened  forehead  and  an  overwhelming  dignity  of  de- 
meanour— 

"My  informant  was  a  woman  named  Chubb." 

''Mrs.  Chubb!"  cried  Delia,  jumping  up  from  her  seat. 
"However  could  she  .  .  .?  Oh,  she  is  charwoman  here 
and  often  did  my  room.  I  am  so  careless:  she  must  have 
read  a  letter." 

Lord  Southwater  bowed,  simply  because  he  could  not 
bring  forth  any  sound  with  which  to  intimate  that  he 
shared  this  view,  and  realised  that  his  information  had 
come  through  private  letters  read  by  a  charwoman;  but 
he  again  felt  bitterly  that  Dick  even  in  death  had  power 
to  drag  him  down.  At  last  he  was  able  to  articulate — 

' '  I  only  heard  the  broad  fact  of  your  friendship.  I  have 
no  idea  what  was  in  the  letter.  I  am  sure  you  will  realise 
that  all  this  is  as  intolerable  to  me  as  it  ever  can  be  to 
you." 

"I  don't  doubt  that,"  said  Delia  slowly.  "Well,  know 
the  truth,  then!  He  crept  home  when  he  was  dying,  like 
a  sick  dog — because  it  was  home  and  he  loved  it.  And  he 
died  at  the  Dragon  at  Ryeford,  where  he  could  hear  the 
Wendlebury  bells  and  need  not  bother  you." 

Lord  South  water's  face  changed,  for  no  man  who  is  not 
a  brute  can  hear  such  a  thing  of  a  brother  and  remain 
unmoved. 

"I  would  have  come,"  he  said.  "Dick  knew  I  would 
come  if  he  sent  for  me.  I  am  not  like  that."  He  paused. 
"He Did  he  die  alone?" 

Delia  looked  at  him  intently  for  a  minute,  then  she 


.LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET    299 

shrugged  her  shoulders.  After  all,  it  was  not  for  her  to 
mete  out  punishment. 

"No." 

Lord  Southwater  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  the  pink  colour 
came  back  into  his  face. 

"You  were  there?"  And  even  to  himself  it  appeared 
incredible  that  he  should  thank  God  for  that. 

"No,"  said  Delia.    "I  was  in  London." 

"Then  it  was  a  stranger?" 

"Yes."  She  paused  again,  a  long  time,  as  it  seemed, 
with  the  clock  ticking  in  that  little  room,  before  she  con- 
tinued: "It  was  Unwin  who  found  him  fainting  on  a 
stone-heap  by  the  roadside.  He  went  there  to  see  the 
roofs  of  Wendlebury.  You  know  how  they  look  with  the 
rain  across  them.  Poor  Dick!  He  was  always  a  senti- 
mentalist!" 

But  Lord  Southwater  was  in  some  strange  way  offended 
to  hear  from  Delia's  lips  what  he  had  himself  said  a  thou- 
sand times. 

' '  Did  Mr.  Unwin  go  again  ? "  he  said,  frowning. 

"Yes.  He  sat  up  the  last  three  or  four  nights.  He  was 
there  when  Dick  died.  It  was  the  morning  after  you 
lectured  in  Wendlebury.  Unwin  went  just  as  he  was 
from  your  lecture,  in  his  dress  things,  and  stayed  all 
night." 

"I  suppose "  Lord  Southwater  had  to  moisten  his 

lips,  which  had  suddenly  turned  dry.  "I  suppose  Unwin 
does  not  know." 

"Know  what?  That  the  dying  stranger  at  the  Dragon 
Inn  was  your  brother  ?  Oh,  yes. ' ' 

"And  yet  he  never  said  a  word.  I — I  inflicted  on  him 
a  very  great  disappointment,  and  yet  he  never  said  a 
word." 

"He'd  promised  not  to,"  said  Delia.  "You  don't  think 
your  appointment  would  tempt  him  to  make  capital  out 
of  a  secret  he  had  promised  a  dying  man  to  keep,  do 
you?" 


300  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"No."  Lord  Southwater  cast  his  mind  back  to  his  first 
impression  of  Unwin  before  it  had  been  spoilt  and  blurred 
by  Mrs.  Delamere's  story  of  the  young  rake  coming  out 
of  the  Dragon  Inn.  Then  he  thought  of  the  pawnshop  and 
Miss  Amelia,  and  his  never  quite  allayed  sense  of  un- 
easiness on  that  score  prepared  him  to  say  now:  "I  have 
done  Mr.  Unwin  a  great  injustice.  I  will  ask  his  pardon. 
I  will  make  everything  all  right." 

Delia  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"That's  beyond  even  your  power,  Lord  Southwater." 

He  looked  at  her,  startled  at  last. 

"What!     He's  not  .  .  .?" 

"He's  dying  at  Teneriffe." 

Lord  Southwater  said  nothing,  only  began  to  walk  to- 
wards the  door;  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
walked  like  an  old  man.  But  it  was  not  grief  for  his 
brother  nor  for  Unwin  which  had  broken  him  up:  it  was 
for  himself,  that  he  had  been  unjust.  He,  whose  religion 
it  was  to  be  just,  who  had  clothed  himself  with  justice  as 
with  a  toga,  felt  as  if  everything  in  the  world  had  been 
taken  from  him,  and  he  were  being  forced  out  naked  into 
Bowling  Green  Terrace. 

At  the  door  he  paused,  brushing  his  trembling  hand 
across  his  forehead. 

"What  doctor  attended  him?    Did  Carter?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  Carter  knows  too!  It  was  very  wrong  of  him 
to  allow  me  to  remain  in  ignorance." 

"He  is  hardly  the  man,  I  should  say,  to  betray  a  pro- 
fessional secret  which  was  solemnly  entrusted  to  him," 
said  Delia. 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Lord  Southwater;  for  be- 
sides thinking  himself  a  just  person,  he  was  one.  "No, 
one  could  not  expect  him  to  do  that."  He  paused  again, 
like  a  man  who  has  lost  his  bearings.  "But  you  had  no 
idea  that  I — that  Mrs.  Chubb "  He  really  was  un- 


LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET     301 

able  to  finish  his  sentence.  "What  made  you  come  to 
Wendlebury  just  at  this  juncture?" 

"Oh!  I  was  walking  past  the  Square  garden,"  said 
Delia  casually,  "a  grimy  Bloomsbury  sort  of  square,  you 
know;  and  it  began  to  rain,  slanting  across  the  trees.  So 
I  thought  of  Wendlebury  in  the  spring.  And  I  came." 

"Indeed!"  replied  Lord  South  water,  obviously  disbe- 
lieving her,  though  she  spoke  the  simple  truth;  and  he 
went  away. 

Delia  watched  him  go  down  the  street  recovering  his 
lost  dignity  with  every  yard  which  divided  them,  and 
she  thought  how  incredible  it  seemed  that  this  was  the 
brother  of  the  man  she  loved.  She  could  not  picture  them 
laughing  and  playing  together,  and  yet  they  must  have 
done.  .  .  .  After  he  had  turned  the  corner  she  went  in 
and  made  a  hasty  toilette.  She  felt  a  sudden,  irresistible 
desire  to  put  some  primroses  on  Dick  Delamere's 
nameless  grave,  so  that  he  should  not  seem  outlawed  and 
forgotten. 

As  she  was  standing  by  a  long  table  heaped  with 
bunches  of  primroses  from  the  green  lanes  and  woods 
round  Wendlebury,  she  looked  across  to  see  Pauline 
bending  over  them,  the  pale  yellow  reflected  most  deli- 
cately on  the  fine,  pale  skin  of  the  girl 's  face. 

She  waited,  not  knowing  whether  to  bow  or  not,  and 
soon  noted  that  Pauline  was  trying  to  say  something.  At 
last  the  words  came. 

"Miss  Lambert,  can  you  tell  me  how  Mr.  Unwin 
is?" 

"I  had  a  letter  from  his  nurse  ten  days  ago.  She  said 
he  was  very  ill,"  said  Delia,  gravely  and  directly. 

"And  you  have  not  heard  since?" 

''No;  I  have  not  heard  since." 

"Thank  you.  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  tell  me.  Good- 
morning,"  said  Pauline,  going  away  without  her  prim- 
roses. 

Her  delicate  reserve  and  pride  were  all  broken  down 


302  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

now  by  her  love;  she  would  have  knelt  to  Delia  in  the 
open  market  place  if  she  could  have  got  by  it  any  news 
of  Unwin.  But  there  was  no  news,  and  she  returned 
home  to  live  out  another  interminable  day. 

The  next  evening,  as  she  sat  sewing  while  Aunt  Dick- 
son  played  Patience — for  the  old  lady  had  never  relin- 
quished that  game  again,  feeling  it  was  something  she 
must  hold  on  to  in  case  it  was  wanted — there  came  a 
great  noise  of  talking  and  giggling  outside  in  the  quiet 
street,  and  immediately  Eva  stood  in  the  room,  almost  as 
if  she  had  been  propelled  up  a  flight  of  stone  steps  and 
through  two  wooden  doors  by  the  Hands  of  Fate. 

"If  I  don't  do  it  now  I  never  shall,"  she  panted, 
breathless:  "I  give  you  notice  that — I'm  going  to  get 
married. ' ' 

"Oh,  Eva!"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  and  her  lip  began  to 
tremble:  then  she  straightened  her  huge  bulk  in  her  chair 
and  added  bravely:  "Don't  think  for  one  moment  that 
I  begrudge  you  a  home  of  your  own;  I'm  very  glad.  It 
was  just  the  suddenness  ..."  But  here  the  memory  of 
all  those  faithful  years  of  service  swept  over  her,  and 
she  could  only  hold  out  her  big,  soft  hand,  enveloping 
Eva's  hard  fingers  in  a  close  pressure,  while  she  mur- 
mured, gulping  down  the  rising  tears:  "You  may  count 
on  me  for  the  bedroom  suite." 

"Bedroom  suite?"  said  Eva.  "Thanking  you  all  the 
same,  but  the  house  is  crammed  with  furniture.  You 
know  that,  'm!" 

"What  house?  Who  is  he?  Oh,  I  do  hope  you  will  be 
happy,"  said  Pauline. 

"Why,  this  house,  Miss,  of  course,"  said  Eva.  "You 
don't  think  I'm  going  to  leave  Mrs.  Dickson!  Why,  I 
mainly  took  to  him,  though  he  has  a  lump  on  his  nose 
and  ginger  hair,  which  I  hate,  because  he's  neither  a 
smoker  nor  drinker,  and  works  every  day  from  eight  to 
eight,  and  has  a  light  tread  and  isn't  a  bad  snorer." 


LORD  SOUTHWATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET     303 

' '  But  how  do  yon  know  that  ? ' '  said  Aunt  Dickson,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears. 

"I  asked  him,"  said  Eva  simply;  and  Pauline,  even 
in  the  midst  of  all  her  misery,  had  to  laugh  too. 

"But  you  do  care  for  him?  He  is  nice?"  she  asked. 
"Dear  Eva,  you  ought  to  have  a  good  hushand." 

"Oh,  he's  right  enough,"  said  Eva.  "Not  what  I 
fancied  I  was  going  to  get  when  I  was  a  lass  of  seven- 
teen, but  you  and  me  knows,  Miss  Pauline,  that  isn't  often 
to  be  had.  Us  Martins  was  always  ones  for  making  the 
best  of  things,  though,  and  as  Mother  used  to  say  when 
our  Ben  wanted  pork-pie — he  was  a  nailer  for  pork-pie — 
'You  go  and  scratch  pig's  back  and  think  about  next  pig- 
killing.'  Ay;  I  owe  a  lot  to  my  poor  mother!" 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Dickson,  "you  rather  take  my 
breath  away,  but  I  suppose  if  he  is  a  quiet,  respectable 
man  the  arrangement  ought  to  be  quite  satisfactory. 
What  do  you  think,  Pauline  ? ' ' 

"I  think  it  all  depends  whether  Eva  is  really  fond  of 
him, ' '  said  Pauline. 

Eva  pleated  her  handkerchief,  seeking  words,  a  thing 
she  seldom  had  to  do. 

"It's  in  this  way,"  she  said.  "When  you  get  a  bit  on 
in  life,  you  want  somebody  of  your  own  that  you  don't 
share  out.  Other  people's  husbands,  even  if  they're  your 
own  brothers  and  uncles,  is  only  like  borrowed  umbrellas 
— they  keep  the  rain  off,  but  you  have  to  treat  'em  so 
careful,  and  give  'em  back,  and  say  'Thank  you' — if  you 
know  what  I  mean  ? ' '  She  paused.  ' '  You  '11  never  remem- 
ber Jum's  in  the  house,  'm,  but  when  there's  a  burglar, 
or  a  mouse,  or  the  doctor  wants  fetching  in  the  night." 

"I  must  think  it  over,"  said  her  mistress. 

But  Eva  felt  quite  sure  that  the  matter  was  really  set- 
tled, and  she  was  right,  for  Aunt  Dickson  spent  the  rest 
of  the  evening  very  happily  in  making  plans  for  the 
newly  married  couple,  even  arranging  for  the  accommo- 


304  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

dation  in  the  back  premises  of  a  numerous  family,  should 
such  a  contingency  arise. 

So  another  week  passed  by  with  no  further  news  of 
Unwin,  and  Pauline  went  about  her  business  with  pale 
lips  and  dark  rings  under  her  eyes,  unable  to  feel  the 
keen  interest  in  Eva's  affairs  which  Aunt  Dickson  de- 
manded. Then,  on  the  following  market  day,  a  thrilling 
piece  of  news  again  ran  through  Wendlebury.  Everybody 
spoke  to  everybody  else  about  it  in  the  street,  in  shops, 
even  in  church — where  Miss  Amelia  whispered  it  to  Miss 
Argle  behind  her  glove  at  daily  Matins. 

"Have  you  seen?  A  new  gravestone  outside?  Where 
we  thought  a  stranger  called  Johnson  .  .  .?  Well!  it's 
Richard  Delamere!" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Miss  Argle,  so  loudly  that  the  curate 
coughed,  rising  to  begin. 

Then  the  two  ladies  had  to  keep  silence,  because  when 
there  are  only  seven  people  in  a  church  the  most  urgent 
conversation  must  be  left  in  abeyance.  But  the  moment 
service  was  over  they  hurried  down  the  churchyard,  and 
stood  by  the  gleaming  new  marble  stone  which  Lord 
Southwater's  wealth  had  allowed  to  be  so  speedily 
erected.  He  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  feel  that  he  had  done 
justice  to  his  erring  brother. 

"How  beautiful!"  sighed  Miss  Amelia.  "  'In  our 
Father 's  house  are  many  mansions. '  So  appropriate ! 
No  doubt  happier  for  both,  even  when  reconciled:  such 
a  difference  of  temperament.  I  often  find  that  text  a  com- 
fort .  .  .  people  you  feel  you  could  not  get  on  with,  even 
in  heaven  .  .  .  don't  you?" 

But  Miss  Argle  had  naturally  failed  to  follow  the  vague 
windings  of  Miss  Amelia's  mind,  and  said  musingly — 

"I  wonder  what  made  Richard  Delamere  come  back? 
His  poor  mother  worshipped  him,  and  died  broken- 
hearted; but  perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  her  that  drew 
him  back  when  his  time  came." 

"I  expect  it  was  that.     Poor  fellow  .  .  .  just  coming 


LORD  SOUTmVATER  IN  A  SIDE  STREET     305 

back  to  die  and  bothering  nobody.     How  touching  and 
beautiful!"  said  Miss  Amelia,  wiping  her  eyes. 

So  Dick  Delamere,  incorrigible  sentimentalist,  lay  in 
"Wendlebury  churchyard,  with  his  memory  gilded  by  the 
light  he  loved — but  the  other  side  of  him  would  have 
mocked  at  the  expensive  tombstone. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE  ladies  of  Wendlebury  were  all  assembled  in  the 
large  hall  where  the  greatest  bazaar  in  the  history  of 
the  county  was  to  take  place.  Bracegirdles,  Argles,  and 
the  like  would  be  as  common  on  the  day  as  rabbits  in  har- 
vest time ;  meanwhile  the  town  ladies  did  that  work  which 
remains  unseen,  and  quarrelled  pleasantly  over  the  situ- 
ation of  the  various  stalls.  Mrs.  Chubb  was  present  to 
sweep  and  dust.  Every  now  and  then  some  one  would 
say — 

"I  wonder  what  has  got  Mrs.  Delamere?" 

And  despite  a  certain  pride  which  all  "Wendlebury  took 
in  its  most  aristocratic  inhabitant,  Miss  Harriet 's  caustic : 
"I  expect  she's  waiting  for  her  peers,"  found  an  echo  in 
every  breast,  even  in  that  of  the  gentle  Miss  Amelia. 

At  last,  however,  there  was  a  clash  of  an  opening  door, 
a  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps,  and  Mrs.  Delamere  was 
in  the  midst  of  them,  presenting  such  a  spectacle  as  no 
Wendlebury  lady  could  look  on  unmoved. 

" Water!  A  seat!"  she  gasped,  sinking  upon  an  up- 
turned packing-case.  "Oh!  that  I  should  have  lived  to 
see  this  day!" 

' '  What !  what !  Give  her  air !  No,  not  that !  That 's  the 
glue — she  said  water.  Oh,  here  is  Pauline  with  the  water. ' ' 
So  spoke  all  the  ladies  at  once. 

"Ah!"  Mrs.  Delamere  groaned,  and  sipped. 

"Do  tell  us  what  happened,  dear  Mrs.  Delamere,"  said 
the  Vicar's  wife.  "Are  you  hurt  anywhere?" 

306 


THE  GREAT  BAZAAR  307 

"Not  bodily,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere,  and  groaned  again. 

"Take  another  sip,"  urged  Miss  Harriet,  aching  with 
curiosity. 

"My  brother-in-law,  Lord  Southwater,"  began  Mrs. 
Delamere — and  how  differently  the  familiar  phrase 
sounded  now! — "my  brother-in-law,  Lord  Southwater 
.  .  .  Oh!"  she  wailed,  breaking  off.  "Useless  to  hide  the 
truth  when  he  did  it  before  the  stationmaster  and  the  en- 
tire platform !  I  was  changing  a  book  at  Smith 's  book- 
stall. I  was  an  eye-witness,  though  only  at  the  last. ' ' 

"But  what  has  he  done?"  cried  Miss  Argle,  shaking 
Mrs.  Delamere 's  shoulder.  "Tell  us  what  he  has  done." 

The  others  withdrew  a  very  little — though  not  nearly 
beyond  earshot — because  the  Argles  had  been  sheeplifting 
when  the  Delameres  were  doing  something  of  the  same  sort 
in  the  Golden  Past,  so  these  descendants  were  naturally 
of  a  class,  and  thus  nearer  to  each  other  than  the  rest. 

"Henrietta,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere,  "my  brother-in-law 
Lord  Southwater,  has  gone  to  London  with  that  Miss  Lam- 
bert !  I  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  handing  her  into  a 
first-class  carriage.  He  followed.  The  whistle  blew.  I 
ran  out  on  to  the  platform,  ordering  the  guard  to  stop 
at  once.  But  I  was  too  late.  The  train  was  already  in 
motion,  and  that  disreputable  person,  in  a  crimson  hat, 
simply  hung  out  of  the  carriage  window  and — and " 

"And  what?"  murmured  Mary  Carter,  who  was  young 
and  unable  to  restrain  herself. 

' '  It  seems  incredible  in  a  decent  world, ' '  said  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere in  a  low  voice.  "My  brother-in-law  was  opening 
a  bag  with  his  back  turned,  and  she  took  the  opportunity 
to — to — to  spread  forth  her  fingers  and  make  what  is 
called  a  long  nose  at  me."  She  paused  at  an  odd  sound. 
"What's  that?" 

' '  Only  me  choking.  .  .  .  My  throat.  .  .  .  Always  is  tire- 
some when  you  first  start  your  training  as  hospital  nurse, ' ' 
explained  Mary. 


308  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"But  you  don't — you  don't  think  they've  eloped?" 
gasped  Miss  Argle. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere.  "I  fear  so.  It 
looked  like  it.  Oh,  if  my  late  dear  husband  were  alive! 
But  I  am  thankful  he  has  been  spared  this!" 

"Whatever  could  make  him  do  it?"  said  Miss  Amelia. 

And  it  was  then  that  Mrs.  Chubb  emerged  from  the 
back  of  the  group  with  a  brush  in  one  hand  and  a  duster 
in  the  other,  wearing  the  fixed  expression  of  a  sleep- 
walker. 

"I  know!"  she  said.  "Poor  feller;  you  don't  want  to 
blame  him — he  can't  help  it!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Mrs.  Delamere,  sitting  up 
straight  on  her  packing-case  and  glaring  at  Mrs.  Chubb. 

Mrs.  Chubb  opened  and  shut  her  mouth,  staring  round 
at  them  all;  at  last  she  said — 

' '  That  Miss  Lambert,  she  Hypnotised  poor  Mr.  Delamere 
— not  your  husband,  Mrs.  Delamere,  but  Mr.  Richard — 
and  he  died.  Then  she  nypnotised  young  Mr.  Unwin  and 
got  him  away  from  Miss  Pauline  here,  and  he's  dying — so 
they  say.  Then  she  nypnotised  my  Chubb  so's  he  won't 
have  a  word  said  ag'in  her,  and  would  take  her  out  driv- 
ing for  nothing,  I  do  believe.  Now  it's  Lord  Southwater. 
She  did  ought  to  be  shut  up.  Mark  my  words,  she'd 
nypnotise  an  Archbishop  if  she  could  get  at  him." 

"Hush!     Hush!"  murmured  the  Vicar's  wife. 

Then  the  door  opened  again  and  a  groom  in  the  South- 
water  livery  entered. 

"Mrs.  Delamere  here?"  he  asked. 

A  sort  of  electric  current  passed  through  the  assembly: 
this  was  drama;  this  was  life! 

"A  note  from  his  lordship.  No  answer,"  said  the  man, 
and  prepared  to  retire;  but  Mrs.  Delamere  rose  majesti- 
cally from  her  box  to  exhibit  her  sway  over  the  minions 
of  her  kinsman's  household. 

"Stop!"  she  commanded.  "I  may  require  you.  Did 
his  lordship  give  this  to  you  himself?" 


THE  GREAT  BAZAAR  309 

And  the  man,  who  hated  Mrs.  Delamere,  replied  wood- 
enly — 

"Yes,  ma'am,  just  before  he  went  to  pick  up  Miss  Lam- 
bert." 

"You  may  wait  in  the  vestibule,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere 
rather  faintly.  Then  she  opened  her  letter,  and  the  ladies 
of  Wendlebury  tried  in  vain  to  look  the  other  way  while 
she  perused  it.  But  the  remarkable  and  violent  alteration 
of  expression  which  her  face  underwent  conquered  even 
their  ladylike  feint  of  curiosity,  and  in  the  end  they  were 
all,  including  Mrs.  Chubb,  goggling  frankly  upon  her, 
practically  asking :  ' '  What  does  he  say  ? ' ' 
'  "It's  not,"  said  Mrs.  Delamere,  pressing  her  hand  upon 
her  surcharged  heart — "it's  not  an  elopement,  but  an  er- 
rand of  mercy ! ' ' 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  and  all 
the  other  ladies  thought  they  thought  the  same ;  but  there 
was  an  undeniable  feeling  of  anti-climax  as  the  Vicar's 
wife  added :  ' '  Dear  Lord  Southwater  is  always  so  char- 
itable ! ' '  and  waited  for  the  next  item. 

"It  appears  that  this — er — Miss  Lambert  is  a  chosen 
friend  of  Mr.  Unwin.  Let  me  see  exactly  what  Lord  South- 
water "  And  in  that  pause  Pauline  gazed  at  Mrs. 

Delamere  with  an  intensity  that  Miss  Amelia  could  not 
help  noticing.  "Oh,  yes,  young  Unwin  is  better  and  is 
being  sent  home  on  board  ship.  They  are  going  to  meet 
the  invalid  at  the  docks.  My  brother-in-law,  Lord  South- 
water" — the  familiar  roll  was  already  back  again — "is  al- 
ways an  Angel  of  Goodness." 

"But  that  wouldn't  make  him  want  to  take  Miss  Lam- 
bert to  meet  Mr.  Unwin,  would  it?"  said  Miss  Amelia, 
greatly  troubled  by  the  look  on  Pauline's  face. 

"Unless  they  were  engaged  and  Lord  Southwater  had 
got  to  know  of  it,"  suggested  the  Vicar's  wife. 

"But  even  then "  said  Mary  Carter.  "Lord  South- 
water  is  all  that  is  good  and  kind,  of  course,  but  he  is  not 
my  idea  of  an  amateur  Cupid." 


310  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Mary!"  exclaimed  her  mother;  then,  apologetically, 
to  the  other  ladies:  "This  comes  of  studying  in  hos- 
pitals ;  girls  get  so  off-hand ! ' ' 

"My  brother-in-law,"  continued  Mrs.  Delamere,  "will 
no  doubt  confide  in  me  immediately  on  his  return — though 
I  may  not  be  permitted  to  pass  on  my  information.  We 
have  family  conclaves  which  we  are  obliged  to  restrict  to 
ourselves,  of  course.  You  must  not  be  disappointed  if  you 
hear  nothing  further  from  me." 

* '  Oh,  no, ' '  faltered  Miss  Amelia.    ' '  Of  course  not ! " 

"But  I  must  say,  at  present,  I  can  make  neither  head 
nor  tail  of  it,"  said  Miss  Argle. 

"The  affair  certainly  passes  my  comprehension,"  ac- 
knowledged Miss  Harriet. 

Then  came  a  faint  murmur  from  Mrs.  Chubb  at  the 
back :  ' '  Nypnotised ! ' ' 

Pauline  moved  away  from  the  group,  saying  hastily 
as  she  went — 

"I'll  go  and  get  the  pins.    We  are  wanting  some  more." 

"Oh!     We  have  plenty,"  cried  Mary  Carter. 

But  Pauline  was  already  through  the  door  and  running 
breathlessly  across  the  market  place.  She  never  stopped 
once  until  she  reached  the  little  shop  where  Unwin  had 
once  lodged.  Then,  for  a  moment,  she  was  too  much  out 
of  breath  to  speak,  so  that  the  thin  shop-woman  had  be- 
gun a  mechanical  "And  what  can  we  .  .  ."  before  she 
was  able  to  gasp  out :  ' '  He  is  not  going  to  die.  He 's  bet- 
ter! He's  coming  home!" 

"Thank  God!"  said  the  shopwoman.  "And  you  ran 
like  this  to  tell  me!  Oh,  Miss  Westcott!"  Then  she  swal- 
lowed, her  nose-end  growing  deeply  pink,  and  yet  neither 
noticed  that  Unwin 's  name  had  not  been  mentioned.  "But 
are  you  sure  it's  true?" 

"  Lord  Southwater  and  Miss  Lambert  have  gone  to  fetch 
him  from  the  boat,"  answered  Pauline. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  how  he  comes,  or  who  fetches  him, 


THE  GREAT  BAZAAR  311 

so  long  as  he  comes  back  safe  and  well.  Do  you,  Miss 
Westcott?" 

"No,"  said  Pauline,  and,  indeed,  for  the  moment  her 
relief  was  so  intense — like  the  strange  joy  of  a  man  who 
thinks  he  has  committed  a  murder  and  finds  himself  inno- 
cent— that  she  did  not  care  about  anything  else. 

But  before  even  the  pins  were  bought,  she  began  to  see 
through  that  dazzling  joy  to  the  certainty  that  Unwin 
and  Delia  were  lovers.  She  knew  as  she  walked  out — and 
felt  humbled  by  the  knowledge — that  her  love  was  not  so 
selfless  and  beautiful  as  the  love  of  that  tall,  thin  woman 
with  a  red  nose  behind  the  counter.  And  she  saw,  also, 
dimly,  that  the  dull  world  was  crowded  with  unsuspected 
beauty :  there  was  no  real  need  for  escape  from  any  place 
when  you  could  find  the  most  delicate  romance  in  a  little 
draper's  shop  in  Wendlebury. 

As  she  re-entered  the  Bazaar  Hall,  there  was  a  hum 
of  excited  voices  which  ceased  when  she  appeared,  and 
then  began  again,  talking  about  something  quite  different. 

' '  This  art  muslin  for  my  stall  is  such  a  charming  shade. 
Where  are  the  scissors?  I  do  hope,  Amelia,  you  have  not 
forgotten  the  string." 

Thus  the  ladies  of  Wendlebury,  until  Pauline  was  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and  then  the  Vicar's  wife  said  with 
a  sort  of  artificial  surprise — 

"Oh,  here  you  are  back  again!  Did  you  get  really 
strong  pins?" 

So  Pauline  saw  they  knew  everything,  but  were  spar- 
ing her  feelings.  And  when  she  suggested  that  it  was  time 
to  return  to  Aunt  Dickson  they  all  said:  "Oh,  must 
you  ? ' '  regretfully,  but  with  the  air  of  jumping  dogs  about 
to  be  unchained. 

Two  days  later,  the  bazaar  took  place.  The  hall  was 
packed  with  people  at  a  shilling  a  head.  Palpitating 
stall-holders,  wearing  powdered  hair  and  black  velvet  hats, 


312  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

stood  by  their  wares  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Lord  South- 
water,  who  was  to  perform  the  opening  ceremony.  The 
waitresses  wore  the  velvet  hats  without  the  powder,  and 
hovered  near  the  entrance  to  the  long  tea-room,  while 
Mrs.  Delamere  could  be  heard  screeching  above  the  dis- 
creet tumult  to  Mrs.  Bracegirdle:  "My  brother-in-law — 
Lord  Southwater — is  sure  to  be  punctual;  he  is  the  Es- 
sence of  Punctuality." 

Then  the  big  doors  were  held  aside  on  either  side  by 
the  bazaar  stewards.  "Here  he  is!"  sounded  through  the 
forest  of  plumed  hats,  like  a  wind  in  Ryeford  woods  her- 
alding the  sunrise,  and  Lord  Southwater  entered,  accom- 
panied by  Miss  Delia  Lambert  and  Mr.  Maurice  Unwin. 

There  was  one  instant's  silence;  then  a  strange,  rushing 
sound  of  everybody  whispering  urgently  and  excitedly  to 
the  next  person.  Pauline  drew  a  little  further  behind  the 
group  of  waitresses  where  she  could  see  without  being  seen. 
And  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  she  endured  then,  be- 
neath her  pretty  feathered  hat,  among  that  group  of 
laughing  girls,  the  supreme  agony  of  her  life.  She  felt 
quite  certain  that  she  was  then  saying  ' '  Good-bye ' '  to  love 
in  this  world. 

"Unwin  looks  thin  and  ill,  but  Miss  Lambert  looks 
flourishing.  I  always  thought  she  was  plain  before," 
said  Mary  Carter. 

"Happiness  is  a  great  beautifier,"  said  another  girl. 
"That  Miss  Lambert  looks  so  awfully  well,  somehow: 
in  for  anything." 

"Now  they're  speaking  to  Miss  Amelia,"  said  Mary- 
Carter.  "Oh,  dear!  I  do  wish  I  could  hear  what  they 
are  saying." 

But,  indeed,  it  was  only  a  desultory  conversation  about 
Unwin 's  health,  in  which  he  took  part  absently,  glancing 
about  him  all  the  time  in  a  restless  fashion  that  made  poor 
Miss  Amelia  quite  nervous. 

"Poor  young  man,  evidently  shattered,"  murmured 
Miss  Amelia,  as  he  moved  away.  The  little  lady  felt  drawn 


THE  GREAT  BAZAAR  313 

to  Delia  in  spite  of  herself,  because  they  were  so  alike  in 
possessing  a  deep  disinterestedness — a  rare,  non-grabbing 
attitude  towards  their  fellow-men.  "Are  you  making  a 
long  stay  in  Y\Tendlebury  ? "  she  asked  politely,  quite  un- 
aware of  this  bond  between  them. 

"No,"  said  Delia,  "I'm  going  for  a  splendid  holiday. 
Old  aunt  fallen  in,  you  know." 

"Aunt  fallen  in?"  said  Miss  Amelia,  roused  to  startled 
attention. 

"Yes;  her  money,  you  know,  which  she  had  no  power 
to  leave  away  from  me,  or  she  would  have  done,"  Delia 
explained.  "So  I'm  off  to  the  South  Sea  Islands.  I've 
always  longed  to  be  in  a  place  where  even  the  fish  are 
scarlet  and  gold.  Such  a  real  change  after  grey  Eng- 
land." 

"Delightful  for  your  honeymoon,  of  course — cheerful 
colours  most  appropriate,"  began  Miss  Amelia,  when  she 
saw  Lord  Southwater  advance  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

' '  Ahem ! ' '  coughed  he. 

"Hush!"  said  everybody. 

Then  followed  a  short  speech,  exactly  like  all  others 
made  by  important  persons  on  such  occasions,  but  not 
delivered  quite  in  Lord  Southwater 's  usual  style.  It 
might  almost  be  imagined — if  such  a  thing  were  possible 
of  such  a  man  in  face  of  a  Wendlebury  audience — that 
he  was  nervous.  And  when  he  had  finished,  and  every 
one  had  clapped  decorously,  he  did  not  either  sit  down 
or  go  away.  He  stayed  where  he  was,  twirling  his  eye- 
glass, and  turning  red  about  the  forehead. 

"Ahem!"  he  coughed  again.  "May  I  detain  you  for 
a  moment  to — er — embrace  the  opportunity  of  congratu- 
lating your  fellow  townsman,  Mr.  Unwin,  on  his  recovery 
and  safe  return  ?"  Absolute  stillness  fell.  It  was  possible, 
literally,  to  hear  a  hairpin  drop,  because  Miss  Amelia  heard 
one  of  her  own  do  so,  and  was  covered  with  confusion. 
' '  On  my  own  behalf, ' '  continued  Lord  Southwater,  ' '  I  am 
deeply  grateful  to  Mr.  Unwin  that  he  has,  after  very  great 


314  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

persuasion,  consented  to  accept  the  post  I  have  offered 
him.  I  trust  you  will  all  join  me  in  hoping  that  we  may 
spend  many  useful  and  happy  years  together." 

"Hear!  Hear!"  said  Mrs.  Delamere  in  a  very  loud 
tone,  determined  to  show  that  she  was  in  the  move- 
ment. "I  support  his  lordship  with  all  my  heart."  And 
she  so  flashed  her  teeth  upon  everybody  that  there  seemed 
to  be  a  perfect  illumination  in  that  part  of  the  room. 

Then  the  Wendlebury  people  surged  round  Unwin,  con- 
gratulating and  shaking  hands,  very  glad  to  be  at  liberty 
to  like  him  again  as  much  as  they  wished,  while  Lord 
Southwater  stepped  down  from  the  platform  with  all 
his  usual  pompous  dignity.  He  had  done  justice  to  Un- 
win,  and  could  again  regard  himself  as  a  just  man;  more 
so  than  ever,  seeing  what  he  had  done  and  endured  in 
order  to  remain  just. 

But  a  little  later,  when  he  wished  to  set  the  seal  of  public 
favour  on  Unwin,  he  found  that  the  heat  had  caused  the 
invalid  to  retire. 

Unwin  came  running  out  of  the  hall,  called  to  Chubb, 
who  waited  for  a  fare,  and  jumped  into  the  cab,  shouting 
excitedly — 

"Drive  hell  for  leather  down  the  Ryeford  Road.  Give 
Griselda  her  head  for  once.  A  pound,  if  she  beats  the 
record ! ' ' 

"Sir!"  said  Chubb.  But  he  immediately  drove  on, 
feeling  a  deep  sense  of  comfort — that  joy  of  the  middle- 
aged  in  finding  things  the  same — for  here  was  Unwin, 
gone  to  heathen  parts  and  nearly  dead,  and  yet  come 
back  as  flighty  as  ever. 

But  after  passing  Aunt  Dickson's — dear  Aunt  Dickson, 
who  sat  jollily  watching  the  world  go  by  to  the  bazaar, 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  for  every  one — Chubb  turned  to 
make  a  polite  remark. 

"Did  you "  And  he  paused.  "Gee  up!  Did  you 

off  ens  hear  'em  play  the  banjo?" 


THE  GREAT  BAZAAR  315 

"Who?"  asked  Unwin.    "I  say,  do  get  on!" 

"Why,  them  niggers,"  began  Chubb. 

"Stop!"  cried  Unwin.  "No,  go  on  till  you  catch  Miss 
Westcott  up." 

"Clop!  Clop!"  echoed  Griselda's  hoofs  on  the  road 
as  if  she  were  mutely  marking  time  and  begging  him  to 
think  again. 

"Wo-ah!"  called  Chubb. 

Pauline  heard  these  sounds  and  glanced  over  her  shoul- 
der. She  drifted  a  few  steps  towards  them,  then  wavered, 
hesitating;  until  that  foolish  shyness  or  reserve  of  hers 
seized  her  and — without  sense,  without  reason — she  be- 
gan to  run  away  along  the  green  edge  of  the  lane.  Her 
footsteps  made  no  sound  on  the  damp  grass,  which  pearled 
her  shoes  with  moisture.  Heavy  drops  from  overhanging 
shrubs  and  bramble  bushes  fell  on  her  dress  and  on  her 
hair.  She  could  hear  Unwin 's  flying  footsteps  behind  her, 
and  the  heavy  "Clop!  Clop!"  of  Griselda's  hoofs  be- 
hind, but  she  could  neither  pause  nor  turn.  That  some- 
thing deep,  instinctive,  stronger  than  herself  which  had 
made  her  escape  from  the  bazaar  caused  her  to  still  run 
on. 

At  last  she  was  spent.  Her  head  swam.  Her  breath 
failed.  She  had  to  lean,  panting,  with  wide  eyes,  against 
a  birch  tree.  Its  silver  bark  gleamed  softly  behind  her, 
the  little,  delicate  branches  whispered  above,  dropping 
more  pearls  of  moisture  upon  her.  She  tried  to  move  a 
step,  but  could  not.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes. 

"Pauline!"  she  heard  Unwin  say  lightly,  though  his 
voice  sounded  hot  and  eager.  "You  must  have  been  train- 
ing for  the  Ladies'  Running  Championship  since  I  was 
away. ' ' 

It  was  so  different  from  anything  she  had  expected 
him  to  say  that  she  opened  her  eyes  and  her  head  ceased 
to  swim.  She  put  out  her  hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Unwin?  I — I  hope  you  had  a 
pleasant  voyage.  Are  you  better?" 


316  THE  GOSSIP  SHOP 

"Not  yet,"  he  said,  keeping  her  hand.  "I  saw  you 
leave  the  bazaar.  I  guessed  you  would  come  up  here." 

"Did  you?"  she  said,  just  glancing  at  him.  But  in 
that  brief  glance  she  had  seen  how  lined  his  face  was — 
the  face  of  a  man,  not  a  boy  any  longer — though  his 
eyes  were  just  the  same. 

He  put  his  hand  under  her  chin. 

"Look  me  straight  in  the  face,  Pauline,"  he  said,  very 
gently. 

She  looked,  and  he  could  see  her  shy  spirit  peering  out 
at  him. 

"Pauline!"  he  said. 

"Yes?" 

And  he  could  see  her  spirit  ready  to  dart  away  into 
loneliness  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  He  had  to  reach  that 
and  hold  it  before  he  held  her  dear  body  in  his  arms. 
He  was  ready — as  ever — to  risk  the  half  to  possess  the 
whole. 

"Will  you  take  me  on  trust?  Do  you  want  me,  Pau- 
line?" 

It  was  only  a  moment,  but  his  world  seemed  to  have 
been  hanging  in  the  balance  for  an  age  by  the  time  she 
replied — 

' '  Oh,  how  I  've  wanted  you ! ' ' 

It  was  a  little  while  before  they  began  to  realise  that 
they  were  still  on  the  plain  earth  under  an  ordinary  sky 
that  held  a  great  deal  of  rain-water.  And  when  Pauline 
said:  "Where's  Chubb?  It's  starting  to  rain,"  Unwin 
only  kissed  the  wet  splash  on  her  cheek  and  they  once 
more  forgot  the  weather. 

At  last,  however,  they  were  obliged  to  walk  back  to- 
wards the  cab. 

"I  think  we  will  have  it  closed — Miss  Westcott's 
dress "  murmured  Unwin;  and  even  Griselda  winked. 

Then  the  cab  rumbled  slowly  now  along  the  familiar 
road,  and  Chubb 's  fares  could  see  the  grey  rain  drifting 


THE  GREAT  BAZAAR  317 

like  a  curtain  across  the  high  spire  and  the  red  roofs  of 
"\Vendlebury.  At  last,  round  the  edge  of  the  cab  a  round 
red  face  like  a  great  sun  came  into  their  field  of  vision. 
Chubb  hung  precariously  from  his  box  and  they  heard, 
even  through  their  blissful  preoccupation,  a  sound  like 
nothing  else  on  earth  but  Chubb  chuckling. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  he  went,  rolling  in  his  seat.  "You  re- 
member my  joke,  Mr.  Unwin?  The  joke  I  made  when 
you  stole  my  cab?  It'll  do  again.  Ho!  Ho!  It'll  do 
again.  Caught  her  on  the  Ryeford  Road!" 

Griselda  whinnied,  throwing  up  her  head  and  heels  in 
admiration,  and  no  words  could  say  more  ecstatically: 
"Hy  Chubb!" 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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